


Down the dusty lengths of time: A Blanc-Cabrera cozy mystery

by Lenore



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:20:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28034544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: When Harlan Thrombey was a junior reporter at a small-town Louisiana newspaper, a woman walked into his office to say she was going to be accused of a murder that hadn’t taken place yet, left before finishing her story, and disappeared never to be heard from again. While going through his papers, Marta reads the account in one of Harlan’s old journals and is determined to find out what happened.Benoit has been contently enjoying some much-needed downtime, but with Marta in need of assistance and his own father somehow involved in the case, he’s compelled to join the investigation.Working together, they unravel a sixty-year-old mystery, which reveals that history does, in fact, repeat itself, and along the way, discover that the most important question of all may be: what comes next?
Relationships: Benoit Blanc/Marta Cabrera
Comments: 18
Kudos: 80
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Down the dusty lengths of time: A Blanc-Cabrera cozy mystery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dissembler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dissembler/gifts).



> Dear Yuletide recipient: I, too, love the coziness and intimacy of these characters, and it was a pleasure to explore that in this story. I hope you enjoy it! Also, I really appreciated your request for no Covid. It made me want to do the very opposite and indulge in a mental vacation of sorts. I hope that I am also indulging you with this. :)

Perhaps it was a reductive way of thinking, but Benoit did entertain the notion that life was an eternal tug-of-war between opposing forces. Every orderly process where one’s efforts were returned in commensurate measure—such as his own method for following arcs and uncovering the truth—was offset by forces of such appalling randomness, such sheer chaos that you might pour everything you were into an undertaking, your blood and hopes and every ounce of strength you possessed, only to be left empty-handed and bereft, not even a tear remaining to shed over failure of such abject proportions there was scarcely language to describe it. 

Nothing exemplified the latter quite as powerfully as the vagaries of tending a garden in Louisiana in early April. 

He sat back on his heels to survey his progress. The beds of dianthus, foxglove, and alyssum were clear now, the flowers with some breathing room and a neat pile of weeds ready for the compost. The hollyhocks, on the other hand, were a sad loss. They’d bloomed early, after the mildest of winters, but days of hard rain had pounded the delicate flowers, leaving petals moldering in the dirt. 

The song of a yellow warbler drew his attention, and he shaded eyes against the blue dazzle of the sky to catch sight of it. If there was such a thing as heaven on earth, he felt sure that this was the spot, here at this little house in the country that had been his retreat for the better part of twenty years from the rigors of city life and the psychic toll that came with confronting the worst aspects of human nature for a living. On the occasions when he found himself considering early retirement, moments that came more often these days, it was with the thought of never leaving this place again. Truth be told, there was nowhere he’d rather be. 

His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he considered letting it go to voicemail. There were still the bachelor buttons and calendula that needed his attention. But the only people who had this number were people he wanted to talk to, so he fished the phone out and answered promptly when he saw the name on the screen. 

“Marta.”

“Blanc.” 

The sound of her voice conjured up the last time he’d seen her: blanket draped around her shoulders, mug of tea in her hand, shaken but still determined to exert that good heart of hers for the benefit of people who could never begin to deserve her. 

“How have you been?” she began, the idle pleasantry belied by something in her voice, barely restrained, and she suddenly blurted out, “I found something in Harlan’s papers and—could you come here? I’m sorry to ask, and of course I’ll pay for your time. Don’t worry, it’s nothing to do with me or the Thrombeys, but it is a mystery, and I’d like to get your opinion on it.”

“I am officially intrigued. I’ll make the arrangements and text you when I expect to arrive.” He chose not to consider what it meant that his resolution of only moments ago to stick close to home could be overtaken so quickly and so entirely by the desire to provide Marta whatever assistance she might require.

“Thank you. I really appreciate it,” she said, with the kind of warmth he imagined was accompanied by a smile. 

The thought of it made him smile in answer. “I’ll see you soon.”

* * *

The trip to Boston came with all the inconveniences and indignities that attended air travel. Benoit arrived at Logan airport hours late, eyes gritty, clothes rumpled, stiff from hours folded up like an accordion in his middle seat, and emerged into the drab chill of a New England spring that didn’t merit the name. For a moment, he thought longingly of his garden and the mellow warmth of the morning he’d left behind, but then he remembered Marta, with her good heart and warm smile and a mystery that needed solving. He briskly claimed his rental car and set out on the final leg of the journey.

In his own environs, where the roads were as familiar as breathing, Benoit found being behind the wheel a relaxing activity, good for rumination. Trying to keep from being run over by Boston’s lunatic drivers was another matter entirely, and the trip out of the city took every ounce of his concentration. It was a relief when he could exit onto a more bucolic local road, and his thoughts were free to return to Marta. How was she faring since he’d last seen her? Had the Thrombeys, against all the odds, grown even marginally less fractious? What could her mystery be? 

He didn’t have long to consider the matter before GPS alerted him to take the first turn toward Two Deerborn Drive, and soon enough, he nudged the car into the driveway. As he made his way up the long ribbon of road, memories crowded back, depressing his spirits. How could he ever feel easy in this place, with his own personal failings that had nearly ended in unspeakable tragedy? He’d followed the facts to the inevitable discovery of the guilty party, but he’d underestimated the sheer malice of the culprit. Marta’s life had hung in the balance because of Benoit’s own lack of foresight, spared only by those forces of chaos, the random reprieve of a prop knife striking her heart instead of a deadly blade. 

This gloomy mindset lifted when the front door swung open, and Marta stood there, whole and alive and smiling. “Blanc,” she said, stepping forward, her arms going around him in a hug.

“Benoit,” he said, into the cloud of her hair. “If you like.”

She pulled back, her smile even brighter. “Please, come in.”

It felt strange to step into the entryway, to be in this house again, so much the same, with Harlan’s portrait in its place of honor over the mantel, still presiding over the home’s comings and goings with a sharp, observing glint in his eye and the smallest of smirks. Marta had thinned out the bric-a-brac, toning down the extremes of Harlan’s unnerving funhouse aesthetic. The overall effect was lighter, friendlier, a more inviting atmosphere in which to stop and stay a while. 

“You’ve had a long day travelling,” Marta said, her quick glance taking in his somewhat bedraggled state. “Would you like to rest before dinner? I thought we would eat around eight. Is lasagna all right?”

“A delighted yes to the lasagna, but as for resting,” he offered a shake of the head, “I must admit to a very strong curiosity about this mystery of yours and find myself quite eager to learn the details.”

It was clear this was just what she’d hoped to hear. “Then let me show you up to your room. You can meet me downstairs in the study when you’re ready.”

On the second floor, Marta led him past the rooms the Thrombey family had used, toward the opposite wing. “Too many memories for me.” The note of sadness in her voice was impossible to miss. “My mom and sister didn’t feel comfortable using this part of the house either.”

“I look forward to meeting your family,” Benoit said, in an attempt to steer the conversation in a less distressing direction. “Will they be joining us for dinner?”

But this, too, drew a sad shake of the head from her. “They’re visiting relatives back in Ecuador, now that my mom’s immigration status is finally settled.”

It surprised him that they had paid what must have been a long-awaited visit without Marta along. “You didn’t want to go?” 

“I did,” she said wistfully, “but there’s still so much to do here. We’re planning another trip at Christmas.” She stopped at the door of a guest bedroom. “Let me know if there’s anything you need,” and left him to settle in.

Benoit sat his bag down on the bed and started to unpack, because he was particular that way. No matter how short a time he planned to stay in a place, he could only be easy once he’d put his things where they belonged. In the present circumstances, however, he hurried through the task and quickly returned downstairs to Marta. 

The furnishings in the study appeared largely unchanged, but with Marta behind the desk, the space looked very much her own. Mail sat in a pile, half gone through. Files with what he assumed was estate business took up one corner. A dogeared, obviously much-read paperback lay face down at her elbow. 

Benoit took the chair that had been pulled up to the side of the desk and helped himself to the tray of snacks Marta had set out. Now that he was at leisure to contemplate her more closely, it only served to confirm his initial impression. She looked tired, with purplish traces beneath her eyes, and a tension in her shoulders that suggested some source of stress. The question of whether the Thrombeys had become any less difficult to deal with, he suspected, had been answered.

“Can I get you some water or tea?” Marta offered. “Or how about some of Harlan’s scotch? He always said it was good for the thought processes.” 

“I wouldn’t say no to that.”

She got up to pour it. 

Benoit didn’t mean to be nosy; it was just a habit to peruse whatever papers happened to fall within his line of sight. Over the many years of his career, he’d perfected the art of reading upside down. Even if that hadn’t been the case, he would have recognized young Mr. Drysdale’s handwriting. Benoit himself had been on the receiving end of several poisoned pen letters from Massachusetts state prison inmate #47129. 

“You shouldn’t have to keep dealing with the Thrombeys,” Benoit said when Marta returned with this drink, nodding toward the letter.

Her expression dimmed noticeably. “Tell me about it. I really hoped that if I let them take whatever they wanted from the house to remember Harlan by that it would appease them, and maybe that would be the end of it, but every week it seems they call Alan with some new demand.” She let out a sigh, sounding drained if also resigned, and Benoit’s already poor opinion of the Thrombey clan plummeted that much further. “The truth is, they’ll always be part of my life, at least as long as my family and I live here in this house, and maybe even after we move on.”

“You have no plans to remain here then?”

She shook her head, decidedly rejecting the notion. “This was always just a temporary move until things settled down. It’s easier to go through Harlan’s journals and papers if I’m here, and it’s harder for people who want to sell us something to reach us with Mr. Proofroc at the gate. We couldn’t get a moment’s peace at our old place. Unfortunately, I think the Thrombeys took us moving in here like we were trying to, I don’t know, rub it in or something. They’ve been even more impossible ever since.”

“I am sorry to hear that. But, at the very least, you shouldn’t be bothered with Drysdale,” Benoit reasoned. “A court order can take care of that.”

Marta sighed again, even wearier. “I would like nothing more than just to forget Ransom even exists, but he’s writing a book. A mystery.” At Benoit’s disbelieving expression, she conceded, “Okay, it started off as a poorly spelled, thinly disguised revenge fantasy. The uppity help gets what’s coming to her. You can imagine. I wrote back to say if that was the best he could do then he should stop embarrassing himself. The next time, he sent six chapters of a novel. I showed it to some of the editors at Blood Like Wine, and they thought it had promise. Harlan always did want Ransom to build something of his own, and I just feel like—”

“You don’t owe Harlan anything,” Benoit gently reminded her. 

He didn’t need to be an investigator to see she wasn’t entirely convinced about that. 

“Anyway, I didn’t ask you here to talk about the Thrombeys. I wanted to show you this.” Marta handed him a battered leatherbound book. 

When Benoit opened it, he saw the large, looping scrawl that had become familiar during the case and surmised he was looking at one of Harlan’s old journals. The date and location of the first entry made him pause. Famously, Harlan had been a junior reporter at a small-town newspaper when he’d started writing his first novel. Out of boredom, he claimed, because nothing ever happened in that place. 

It was the same small town where Benoit would be born some years later. 

“I marked the entry,” Marta told him. 

Benoit turned to the page.

* * *

_April 3, 1959  
Ashburn, LA_

_I arrived at the office this morning to find something I never expected to encounter in this sad excuse for a town: an honest-to-God surprise. “She just showed up,” Ruth Ann at the reception desk whispered, with gossipy delight. “Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Says her name is Adele Hebert.”_

_There were Heberts who lived on the outskirts of town, rough-hewn country people who subsisted on what they could kill or grow, who knew the bayou inside and out, and didn’t take much to strangers. Odds were this Miss Hebert was one of them._

_My first sight of her told me I was right. She had the sturdy build of the other Hebert women I’d crossed paths with, plain features in a broad face, hands that were no stranger to a hard day’s work._

_“You wanted to see me?” She nodded, looking nervous, as if she felt out of place. “What can I do for you, Miss Hebert?”_

_It took her a long moment to pluck up her courage. “I want to tell my story to somebody who’s not from around here, somebody who might believe me, about what’s been happening at my job. Before the murder happens, and I get blamed for it.”_

_I felt an actual prickle on the back of my neck. My journalism career to date had entailed walking the Rotary Club beat. I’d just about given up covering anything even as interesting as a traffic accident and had been forced to start making my own entertainment, concocting the kind of whodunits that would never happen in Ashburn and would probably shock its fine, church-going citizens._

_And yet, here was a real-life murder mystery in the making that just wandered in off the street. There were so many questions, but I hadn’t even got out the first one before the managing editor, who took the fact that he was my boss far too seriously, came charging in, red-faced and gesticulating._

_“Where the hell’s the draft of that article on the Horticultural Society’s new slate of officers? If we miss the press deadline on that, I’ll never hear the end of it from my wife.”_

_Miss Hebert, who had already been skittish as a cat, bounced up from her chair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to impose when you’re busy.”_

_“Not at all,” I rushed to assure her. “Please, have a seat. I want to hear what you have to tell me.”_

_“Are you listening to me, Thrombey?” demanded the managing editor._

_The man’s news instincts were so nonexistent that he couldn’t sense the most compelling story this town would likely ever produce standing just two feet away from him._

_“I’ll come back later,” Miss Hebert said and practically ran from the room._

_I tried to rush after her, but before I’d even made it out of my office, I heard the front door slam. Out on the sidewalk, there was no sign of her._

_I can only hope that she really will come back and tell me the rest of her story._

_April 4, 1959  
Ashburn, LA_

_Miss Hebert did not come back. I supposed it was too much to hope that she’ll come wandering into my office on her own again. Such extraordinary serendipity isn’t likely to repeat itself._

_If the story of my career would not come to me, then I would go hunt it down. It seemed simple enough in principle. The Heberts were a tight-knit clan, who all lived within a few miles of one another. I’d drive out there, knock on the first door I came to, and get directions to Miss Hebert’s location._

_Simple in principle, it turned out, was not remotely simple at all. It took a good hour before I found someone willing to do anything beyond stare at me blankly when I asked about a woman who was no doubt their blood relation. At last, an older lady whispered through her screen door, “I ain’t seen her lately, but you might ask them at her job if they where she is.”_

_She named the family Adele worked for, which I’m omitting here on the offhand chance someone finds this journal and tries to scoop me, but I can say that it took whatever professionalism I can claim to keep a neutral expression as I thanked her and all my self-restraint to walk, not run, back to my car. In a town where your social status correlated to the elevation of your address, these people lived at the very tippy top of the highest hill. This story just got even more interesting._

_They were just the sort to have a service entrance, and I was the kind of riffraff, no doubt, that it was intended for. At the back door, I asked to speak with the housekeeper, and a woman appeared, not pleased at all by the sight of me. Mentioning Adele’s name caused her shoulders to rise up and her mouth to pull into a tight line. “She’s no longer employed here.” The door closed unceremoniously in my face._

_It had seemed like a game up to that point: chase the leads, find the girl, get the story. I hadn’t given much thought to the possibility that Adele Hebert might actually be in trouble. Not until that moment._

_The Ashburn police force spent most of their time handing out parking tickets and drinking coffee at the diner, but whenever I’d been able to get Detective Blanc to talk to me, he’d struck me as a whole different caliber of officer. I decided to go see him and tell him everything I knew about Adele Hebert._

_He listened patiently, without interrupting, but when I said I wanted to file a missing person’s report, he just shook his head at me. “This girl changed her mind about talking to you and quit her job,” he told me. “That doesn’t make her missing.”_

_“Every instinct I have says something’s wrong,” I insisted._

_Detective Blanc gave me a good, long look, taking my measure. “All right. I’ll look into it. Unofficially.”_

_I can only hope he actually will and that he’ll find Miss Hebert safe and well and not accused of any crime._

_April 6, 1959  
Ashburn, LA_

_There is still no sign of Miss Hebert, but from what I’ve been able to finagle out of Detective Blanc, she was right to be afraid. She’s caught up in a mess, powerful fingers pointing her way. So far, Blanc hasn’t had any luck locating her either. Although her uncle has come forward to make a missing person’s claim, so at least it’s an official investigation now. Blanc says there’s no way any of the Heberts would set foot in the police station if they weren’t truly worried about Adele._

_It’s as if she’s vanished off the face of the earth._

_I try to imagine where a girl like her would even go. She’s likely never been farther from home than downtown Ashburn. Who could she turn to? Is she even still alive? I don’t know. I have an uneasy feeling that this story is more twisted than we could ever foresee, than I could even concoct in my imagination, and that the truth of it may never be fully discovered._

* * *

Benoit turned the page, but the entry jumped forward several weeks, with no further mention of Adele. 

“There are pages missing,” he noted, examining the binding more closely. “They’ve been cut out.” 

Marta nodded. “I’ve searched all through Harlan’s papers, everywhere I could think of, and couldn’t find them. I tried googling, but there’s nothing about an Adele Hebert who lived in Ashburn, LA at that time. I hired a local investigator that Alan recommended to do a records check, but she couldn’t find any trace of Adele after 1959. No tax returns. No criminal record. No death certificate. It’s like she just disappeared without a trace. That’s when I decided to call you.”

“So, what exactly would you like me to do?”

She leaned in, her sense of urgency palpable. “I want you to help me find out what happened to Adele. I just—I need to know.”

The details in Harlan’s journal were rather scanty, but from what there was of the story, Benoit could certainly understand how Marta might see parallels between Adele Hebert and herself, given the cruel fate Drysdale had engineered for her. It made all the sense in the world, given her kind heart, that she would want to know what happened to the other woman, however long ago those events took place. With such a cause and especially given that his own father was involved in some way, how could he refuse to help?

“All right, Watson. Let’s investigate.”

Her smile came quickly, and it lit her entire face, just the way he recalled from those few times during the investigation into Harlan’s death when she had cause to smile. “But first, lasagna,” she declared.

They ate in the kitchen, a large, homey space with planters of herbs sitting in the windows, copper pots hanging from a rack, and a charmingly battered farmhouse table that stood next to an old, disused fireplace. Marta’s lasagna was delicious, and Benoit was far hungrier than he’d realized after his day of traveling. It felt comfortable, even oddly familiar, to sit there breaking bread with her.

“I hope you don’t mind eating here instead of the dining room,” Marta said. “It’s just so formal in there. Chilly, too. I really need to have someone look at the radiators. My family and I tried it last Christmas.” She shook her head ruefully. “We decided never again.”

“I can’t imagine a more delightful place to take a meal than right here,” Benoit assured her. “The kitchen is typically my favorite room in any home. Nor could I ask for more pleasant company.”

Marta met his gaze, earnestly, if a little shyly. “I’m really glad you’re here. To be honest, it’s been kind of lonely with Mom and Alice gone.”

Benoit could certainly understand why. This rambling old place would oppress even the hardiest of spirits with its large, echoing rooms, not to mention the unhappy events that had unfolded here. 

“Can I ask you something?” Marta asked, biting her lip, as if barely able to hold back the question. 

“Go right ahead.”

“Did your father ever mention the case? Did you ever hear anything about Adele Hebert?”

Benoit shook his head, sorry to disappoint her. “My father was notoriously close-mouthed about his work and tried never to bring it home with him. Maybe if I’d grown up in Ashburn, I’d have heard stories at school or around town, but we moved some distance away when I was around four years. I wish I could ask him about it, but I’m afraid both my parents have passed on now.”

“Blanc—Benoit, I’m sorry.”

“I appreciate that,” he said and then something occurred to him. “I did inherit an entire junk room full of my father’s files. I have to admit that though it has been several years I have not yet managed to go through them. My father had a tendency to hang on to everything, much of it perfectly useless, but I believe there are also some notes on his old cases.”

“I think maybe your junk room is where we should start,” Marta said. 

“I think you’re right.”

* * *

The return trip to Louisiana passed far more pleasantly with Marta for a companion. She had insisted on purchasing first-class tickets for them both, and Benoit made sure she took the window seat to catch a glimpse of New Orleans from the air upon their arrival. They whiled away the hours alternately reading and chatting. Benoit was a man much given to solitude—the mental burdens of his profession demanded it and he tended to prefer his own company to small talk with others. But with Marta, he felt the ease of conversing with someone who seemed to get his rather eccentric way of seeing the world. 

“I’ve never been to New Orleans before,” she said, over airplane lunch and plastic cups of a surprisingly respectable Rioja. 

“No?” 

She shook her head. “I haven’t traveled much.”

“Well, I may be biased on the subject,” Benoit began, and then amended, “Scratch that, I am most assuredly biased, but I do firmly believe that New Orleans is a marvel that everyone should experience at least once in their lives. While you’re there, we’ll have to make sure you see some of the city, in addition to solving our mystery.”

“I’d really like that,” she said, with such eagerness that Benoit was quite glad he’d suggested it and promised himself to see that she got a proper vacation even as they worked on their case. Anyone enmeshed with the Thrombeys as she was would sorely need a respite from the experience. 

In fact, only a few hours removed from their orbit, she already looked more relaxed, more the woman she had been, Benoit imagined, before this whole mess entangled her. Harlan had been the veritable human embodiment of chaos forces at work, upending lives with the stroke of his signature on that will, a bequest that should have, could have meant freedom for Marta, except for the many weighty burdens it carried. Benoit wondered if Harlan had ever considered that—he rather doubted it. 

The flight arrived on time, and they streamed through the deplaning rigamarole and made their way through the terminal with relative ease, into the car awaiting them. The driver deposited them in front of Benoit’s apartment building, and Benoit ushered Marta inside and into the elevator, an ancient metal contraption, original to the structure, that clanged and groaned its way to the top floor. 

“This is so charming,” Marta said, taking in the ornamental details of the wrought iron.

“That’s one way to describe it,” Benoit said, dryly. “Another might be ‘potential death trap’.”

She laughed, and he led her off the elevator and into his home. Only as they stood there in the vestibule did it occur to him to wonder how he might appear to Marta once she was inside his sanctum sanctorum, viewing him through the prism of his personal foibles. His mother used to say that men who took too long to marry grew overly particular and before you knew it, they were impossible to live with. Benoit would surely admit to being set in his ways. In his kitchen drawers, the cooking implements were arranged in ascending size order. His books were grouped methodically by subject area and then alphabetically by author’s last name. When he wasn’t traveling or spending time at his country house, he ate dinner at the same restaurant every Thursday night. 

His bachelor way of life, consumed as it was by work, was hardly conducive to hosting social affairs. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d entertained guests. Female company was even more scarce. Not that Marta was female company in the usual sense of the term, of course. She was his client, even if he had no intention of charging her for the consultation, and if he were very lucky, he might count her as a friend. 

“Let me take your coat,” he offered, remembering his manners, and led her down the hall to the parlor. 

She glanced around, admiring the room: mahogany wainscoting, carved fireplace, gray-blue velvet sofas, bookshelves dominating an entire wall. “If I had imagined what your place looks like, this is exactly what I would have pictured.”

“I’m that predictable, am I?”

Her face lit with humor. “I think you know you’re full of surprises. But your home—it feels like you.” 

If Benoit had to choose a word to describe the little smile that accompanied this declaration, he might have called it fond, but that was nonsense, of course. They’d developed a certain camaraderie during the Thrombey case, erstwhile allies in the pursuit of the truth, and certainly he held her in the highest esteem, but that was not the same as a personal connection. 

He clapped his hands together, pushing away idle thoughts and getting down to business. “Here’s what I propose for how we proceed. You make yourself at home.” He swept out an arm toward one of the sofas. “I’ll order in some food. Po boys would make a fine first taste of New Orleans, I think. Then I’ll carry the file boxes in here. Trust me when I say that the junk room is no place to spend more than five minutes at a time. We can start combing through the papers and have a working supper. What do you think of that plan?”

“I’ve never had a—po boy? Sounds interesting.” 

“It’s a true New Orleans experience,” he promised, hunting down the menu to get her preferences and calling in the order before he began fetching and hauling files. 

On the last trip, he returned to find Marta on the phone. “No, I’m sorry. I haven’t had a chance to finish going through all the papers you sent me yet. I’m away for a few days, but I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Okay. Thank you.”

“Not a problem, I hope,” he said, once she’d hung up.

She shook her head, but her expression had gone very serious again, the tension returned to her shoulders. “It was Alan. He has me reviewing Harlan’s investments. Most of it is what you’d expect, stocks and bonds, real estate, but there were a few things that were kind of odd. Like he owned a barbecue place in Arkansas and was a silent partner in something called Scented Miracles, which seems to be an herbal pharmacy? Or maybe it sells candles? I’m not sure. Anyway, Alan needs to know what I want to do with it, but I haven’t had a chance to really think about any of that yet. There have been so many other decisions to make.”

“Sounds like you’ve had a lot on your plate,” he said, giving her an opening if she wanted to confide some of her struggles. 

As he well knew, the challenge wasn’t just the responsibility of securing Harlan’s legacy and the complexity of managing an estate of that magnitude, but trying to do all of it while also navigating around Harlan’s quarrelsome, exhausting family. 

“To be honest, it has been kind of overwhelming,” Marta said, in a way that made Benoit suspect this was the first time she was admitting it out loud. “I keep wanting to push through it, make the decisions, get it all done, so I can get on with my life. But there’s still so much left to handle, and sometimes I just feel worn out by it. I think maybe that’s another reason why I’m so determined to find out about Adele. I really need something else to think about right now.”

Benoit removed the lid from the first of the file boxes with a flourish. “Well, it’s not a tropical getaway on a beach with drinks that have umbrellas in them, which is surely what you deserve, but let’s see if we can’t take your mind off everything Thrombey-related with some good, old-fashioned detective work.”

Her expression brightened, as if he’d just offered her a delightful treat instead of a dusty pile of yellowing folders. “I’m ready to get started.”

Benoit’s father had the orderly mind of a man trained to observe the most minute of details and sift through that raw data in search of what was relevant and suggestive of a pattern of facts. The same rigor had not carried over to his recordkeeping. That much was clear as they dug into the first box. Household receipts for mulch and furnace repairs were mixed in with case files and random ballistics reports. When Benoit did stumble upon a trove of police reports, they zigzagged around the timeframe his father had been active on the force, from the 1950s to the 1990s. Marta’s expression made it clear she was battling the same chaos in the files she was sifting through. 

“Would some beer assist our efforts, do you think?” he inquired.

“So much,” she said quickly. 

The buzzer rang on his return from the kitchen, happy timing. “That would be our dinner.” 

Benoit collected the bags and went to fetch plates. They divvied up the sides, potato salad and fried pickles, and ate picnic style there in the living room, washing down their oyster po boys with the local craft brew he favored.

“This is the best sandwich I’ve ever had in my life,” Marta declared. “Honestly, it feels wrong even calling it a sandwich. It’s like you said, a whole experience.”

The hunt resumed as soon as their meal was done. They went through three boxes with no hint of anything relating to Adele Hebert; records from that far back were few and far between. Benoit set out pralines, all he had in the way of dessert, and offered Marta a glass of port to go with it. The next two boxes proved as fruitless as the others, and Benoit began to think they would find nothing at all to assist their efforts when he suddenly snapped to attention.

“What? Did you find something?” Marta asked, instantly more alert. 

“A file with Adele Hebert’s name on it.” 

A receipt slid out of the folder, faded with age and hard to read. “It’s from Webster, Massachusetts, dated 1987,” Benoit said, just able to make it out with a lot of squinting. “My father did travel widely, attending various conferences and law enforcement seminars, without ever stepping foot on an airplane.” He added this slip of paper to the ever-growing piles of gas receipts. 

The only other thing in the file was a page of notes in his father’s hand, detailing the steps he’d taken to locate Adele Hebert. That was all. He handed it over to Marta for her perusal. 

“This doesn’t give us much to work with,” she said, and he could feel her attention lingering on him, taking in his air of distraction. “What is it, Benoit?”

He struggled to put words to the unease that had overtaken him. “My father wasn’t organized about his paperwork, as you have very clearly seen, but he was always an impeccably thorough investigator. I suppose I’m surprised that there wasn’t more in the file, that he didn’t do more on the case. A young woman’s disappearance is something I would expect him to go all out to solve, even if she weren’t also potentially implicated in a crime.” 

“Maybe he did do more, and the file just isn’t complete. You said yourself that paperwork wasn’t your father’s strong point.” She frowned, thoughtfully. “I know it was a long time ago, but is there anyone who knew your father back then that we could talk to?”

Benoit considered that possibility. “My father’s longtime partner on the force, Reggie Fontenot, is still alive, a remarkably young eight-five years old. They didn’t work together until after my father left Ashburn, but they did spend over thirty years practically living in one another’s pockets. He might know something. I’ll call him in the morning and see if it’s okay if we drive out to see him.”

Marta nodded along with this plan. The travel, as well as the food and drink, seemed to be catching up with her. She’d been looking increasingly sleepy, and now she couldn’t hold back a yawn. 

“In the meanwhile, we should get some rest,” Benoit told her, with a gentle smile. “It’s been a long day, and we’ve gone as far as we can for now.”

He showed her to the guest bedroom down the hall. “I hope you’ll be comfortable here. It’s on the back of the building, so the drunken reprobates stomping up and down Bourbon Street shouldn’t keep you awake.”

She laughed, soft and low, and moved past him into the room, sweeping a glance around. “It’s lovely. Thank you for inviting me into your home.”

“It is my very great pleasure.” He held her gaze, and for a moment, something seemed to bloom in the air, an emotion between them that he had not expected, but then, there was an intimacy that arose from the joint pursuit of truth that might masquerade as something more personal. He could not think that this sudden sense of magnets being drawn together was anything else, and he would not for anything in the world make her uncomfortable. “I’ll bid you goodnight then and see you in the morning.”

He retired to his own room and got himself ready for bed. As he settled down to sleep, his thoughts shifted to that earlier question he had wondered about, how it would be to have Marta here in his home. The answer took him quite by surprise. It felt as if she belonged here.

* * *

Morning brought its trademark clarity, and Benoit set aside all fanciful notions of a personal nature in favor of renewed determination to unravel the increasingly compelling question of Adele Hebert and what had become of her. 

That slim little file folder of his father’s, with its lone sheet of paper, continued to press on him unhappily. The corrosive influence of wealth and power were evils every society on earth grappled with, surely, but in Louisiana, the roots of corruption went deep, entangled intricately into every public institution, most certainly in the state’s police departments. Benoit had always believed his father to be the rare example of a long-tenured police officer who neither compromised his principles nor tarnished his character on the job. Just the possibility that he’d been mistaken on that score gave him an ache in his chest. 

But it would not deter him from following that arc to its logical conclusion, if it came to that. No biases of any kind. That was the only path forward. 

“Good morning,” Marta said, emerging from her bedroom, dressed and ready for the day. 

“Morning,” Benoit greeted her. “How’d you sleep?”

“Really well,” she said, as if the fact surprised her. “I usually don’t when I’m away from home. And sometimes not even when I’m there. Were you able to get in touch with your father’s partner?”

“I’m afraid Reggie is a notorious night owl. He won’t be awake for,” Benoit checked his watch, “hours yet. Which is fortuitous, because it gives us the chance to go get breakfast at one of New Orleans’ most hallowed institutions.”

It was a sparkler of a day, the sun shining bright as a lemon drop in the cloudless expanse of sky, and they strolled leisurely to Decatur Street, enjoying the morning’s gentle warmth. As luck would have it, the line at Café Du Monde wasn’t long, and they soon found themselves seated at one of the outdoor tables beneath the awning, allowing them to people-watch as they dined. 

“What’s a beignet?” Marta studied the limited menu with an air of puzzlement. 

“You’ll see,” he promised, with a smile. 

A waiter came to take their order and quickly returned with two dishes stacked high with fresh, warm beignets and hot coffees. 

Marta leaned in. “This smells amazing.” She gave one a try. “Oh my God, it tastes even better. I could eat these every day of my life.”

“Then you’d fit right in with the rest of us New Orleanians,” Benoit said, delighted by her enthusiasm. 

“There’s something I’m curious about. You said your father didn’t like to talk about his work. So, what made you want to be an investigator?”

Strangely, it was not a question he’d ever given much consideration. His profession had felt like a calling, and he’d simply followed its pull as the natural course of things. “I suppose my father’s silence on the subject imbued investigatory work with a certain glamor to my young imagination. And then, I always have had an unusual way of seeing things and processing information. You’ve witnessed my method. I wasn’t designed to walk a more usual path, as a doctor or an accountant or even a police detective like my father. I am far too odd for that.”

Marta trained that kind smile of hers on him. “I love the way you see things and not just because it saved my life.”

There was no greater compliment than one which came from a person he valued as highly as he did Marta, and yet, he dearly wished she did not live with the very personal knowledge of how close an innocent person could come to a gross miscarriage of justice. “I appreciate your faith in me, but I do know Lieutenant Elliot to be an exemplary investigator. I have every reason to believe that the same irregularities which troubled me would also have occurred to him, and he would have arrived at the truth in his own good time.”

She nodded absently. “I prefer to believe that than to think about what else could have happened.” A silence fell, and she said suddenly, “I asked that because I’ve been trying to figure out what to do next, after everything is finally settled.” 

“You don’t plan to return to nursing?” he asked, with some surprise. “That seems a shame when I know you to be a dedicated professional who truly excels at what you do.”

From Marta’s expression, it was clear this was a decision she struggled with. “Right now, it just doesn’t seem very workable, and honestly, I don’t know if it ever will be. The mistake I made with Harlan’s medication wasn’t, in the end, a mistake at all, but that’s not how it will stick in people’s heads. I’m not sure if anyone will hire me, and I feel like I’ll go crazy if I don’t have something to focus on when I’m finally through with all the estate stuff.”

Benoit felt all over again the heartbreak of Harlan’s final dramatic gesture, as pure an act of love as any Benoit had ever witnessed, and so tragically unnecessary. 

“You will excel at whatever you turn your hand to. Of that, I have no doubt at all.”

This seemed to give her a measure of reassurance, and they finished their breakfast companionably, watching the various antics of passersby, enjoying the vibrant, eclectic weirdness that made New Orleans the greatest city on earth, in Benoit’s humble estimation. 

The drive out to the retirement home took them past some pretty country. Marta watched out the window with interest as picturesque farms, freshly plowed fields, and homes with welcoming front porches whizzed past. 

“It’s so beautiful here,” she said, with a touch of wonder.

“I have a little house that lies another hour’s drive past where we’re going. It’s in a spot that, biased as I am, I could call paradise without worrying that I was engaging in hyperbole.”

She glanced over at him. “I’d love to see it sometime.”

The request took him by surprise, but he found he rather liked the idea. “Perhaps we’ll manage to get out there before you head back north. It’ll give me the chance to show off my garden.”

They rounded a bend, and the retirement home came into view. It consisted of individual townhouse-style units for those still able to manage on their own, an assisted living facility for those who needed more care, and a central building with a dining room, coffee shop, and gardens that acted as a social nexus. Reggie had his own townhouse—if Benoit were half as vital as Reggie when he was an octogenarian, he’d count himself most fortunate, indeed—but Reggie was hardly ever to be found at home. 

“There’s something I should warn you about,” Benoit said, as he parked the car in the lot. “Reggie was a notorious ladies’ man back in his younger days, and the steady march of years has not changed his nature in the slightest.” 

Marta’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “I’ll do my best not to fall under his spell.”

At the front desk, Benoit asked after Reggie, and the woman working there said, “I saw him come out of the dining room not too long ago, but I’m not sure where he’s at just at the moment. If you look around for a group of ladies, you’re sure to find him.”

Benoit and Marta exchanged an amused glance and set off in search of Reggie. Sure enough, there he was, out on the terrace, holding court, surrounded by at least half a dozen elderly women, who had clearly dressed with the intention of impressing. Reggie himself was done up flamboyantly enough to put a proverbial peacock to shame: turquoise jacket, pink polo shirt, blue checked trousers, and his signature gray felt fedora set at a rakish angle. When he caught sight of Benoit, he said his goodbyes, much to the ladies’ very clear disappointment, and ambled over. 

“Benoit!” Reggie wrapped him up in a hug. “If you don’t remind me more of your daddy with every passing year. How the hell are you? Still solving all those crazy cases? I know you are. I read about every single one of them.” His attention shifted to Marta. “And who is this? Now, don’t tell me you finally went and got yourself married?”

“Actually, this is Miss Marta Cabrera. She’s enlisted me to—” 

Reggie promptly ceased paying the least mind to Benoit upon learning that he and Marta were not attached. “Enchantée, Miss Cabrera.” He lifted her hand and brushed a courtly kiss to it. “I enjoy Benoit’s visits, of course I do, but what a treat to have such a lovely young woman come see me. Let’s get some coffee. We can sit at one of the tables out in the garden and have a nice chat.”

Reggie led them over to the coffee shop and then ushered them to a table in the garden that he claimed was the best one. “You can see the avenue of magnolias from here. When we’re done with our chat, we can take a walk along the path over that ways. There’s nothing more charming than magnolias in bloom.” He took a lusty sip of his cappuccino and turned his attention back to Benoit. “Now, as much as I’m enjoying the company, I know you didn’t come all the way out here just to shoot the shit. You mentioned something about one of your daddy’s old cases?”

Benoit nodded. “I’m helping Miss Cabrera with something of a historical mystery. In some personal papers she inherited, she came across a mention of a woman named Adele Hebert who was from out in Ashburn. My father’s name came up as well. Even though it was before you started working together, I was hoping he might have mentioned something about it to you.”

The change in Reggie’s expression was immediate, all the light-hearted good humor instantly disappearing. “Oh now, Benoit, why do you want to go poking into things that are best left as they are? There’s nothing to be gained by digging up ancient history, especially when everybody involved is probably dead and gone by now. Why do you even care about any of that anyway?”

“I care,” Marta said, with quiet firmness. “I care because I could have been Adele Hebert. I worked for a family, and one of them tried to set me up to take the blame for his crimes. If it hadn’t been for Benoit, I don’t know what would have happened to me. And I can’t stop thinking about what might have happened to Adele.”

Reggie’s face lit with understanding. “You’re the young lady caught up in all that bad business with the Thrombey family. I didn’t recognize your name at first.” He cast a speculating look over at Benoit, which Benoit pretended not to see. “I don’t know what happened to Adele Hebert, my hand to God. It wasn’t something Pierre—that’s Benoit’s daddy—liked to talk about. What I can tell you is that things around here work a certain way. You know all about that, Benoit. There are some families that you just don’t go up against, because they’re going to get their way no matter what you do, and the Claytons for sure are one of those families.”

Benoit stilled. “That’s who Adele worked for?”

‘Who are the Claytons?” Marta asked, looking to Benoit for an answer. 

“A very prominent family in the state. Well connected. Old money.”

“Some of the oldest,” Reggie insisted. 

“I found my father’s file on the Adele Hebert disappearance. Is that why it was so meager? Because the Claytons were involved?” Benoit managed to sound cool enough, he thought, the way he’d ask questions in any investigation, even if he feared hearing this particular answer.

Reggie’s face turned red as a beet, and he pointed a finger, right in Benoit’s face. “Your daddy was the finest man I ever knew, and I don’t want to hear no aspersions being cast against his character, especially not by his own son.”

“I’m sorry this has upset you,” Marta said quickly, her instinct for kindness taking over. “It’s not what we wanted to do. Why don’t we go take that walk you promised me? I’ve never seen a magnolia tree, at least not that I know of. I don’t think I should leave Louisiana without appreciating them in bloom.”

Reggie wasn’t one to turn down the opportunity to spend time with a beautiful young woman, no matter how out of sorts he might be with Benoit. He shot to his feet and extended his arm. Marta took it with a smile, and they set off on a turn around the garden. 

Benoit watched them, thinking over Reggie’s reaction. It might have been genuine outrage or a convenient way to derail the conversation. Benoit was too close to the situation to be able to judge. He did, though, believe that his father hadn’t shared much information about the case. Discretion was in his father’s nature. 

The walk seemed to do the trick of restoring Reggie to his good spirits. 

“All right then,” he said upon returning, patting Benoit affectionately on the shoulder. “Let me see y’all out to your car. I know you’ve got better things to do than hang out with me all day, and I’ve got a ballroom dancing lesson with Esther Broussard. You should see that woman do the fox trot.”

In the parking lot, they said their goodbyes, and Benoit thought it was worth making one last-ditch effort. “Just tell us something, anything that could help us. Is there anybody from back then that we could talk to? 

Reggie sighed heavily. “I honest to God don’t know why you want to get into this old stuff.” With another sigh, he admitted, “There was a lady who would call your daddy ever so often and ask if there were any developments on the case. Housekeeper at the Clayton house. Berniece Sauder was her name.” 

“Thank you,” Marta said, pressing his hand gratefully. “Thank you so much.”

“Don’t go getting too excited about it,” Reggie warned. “I didn’t get the idea that Mrs. Sauder was exactly young when all that happened. I wouldn’t put much hope in her still being alive.”

Reggie stood on the sidewalk, waving in sendoff, as Benoit started the car and began the return trip home. 

“Well, we have a place to start now, at least,” Marta said, “but how can we find Berniece Sauder if she’s still alive?”

“Leave that to me,” Benoit told her. “I have an assistant who helps me with tasks such as this. In the meantime, what say you to experiencing more of New Orleans? I thought we’d start with lunch and then maybe do some sightseeing.”

Marta laughed, her eyes crinkling at the corners in a most adorable fashion. “Well, I’m definitely not saying no to that. Is this what detective’s work always like? Scenic drives and lunch? If so, maybe that’s what I’m going to do next.”

* * *

There were many people, Benoit knew, who eschewed anything that could rightly be regarded as a tourist attraction, who believed the true experience of a place must consist solely of the offbeat, out of the way, and the downright arcane. To his mind, that was snobbery, plain and simple. In this spirit, he and Marta spent the afternoon strolling along the Moonwalk by the river, stopping in to visit St. Louis Cathedral, getting a snack at the French market, and browsing the antique shops and art galleries on Royal Street, before heading back to his place to consider their evening plans.

“Let’s take the streetcar out to the Garden District,” he suggested. “It’s a nice ride, and we can jump off when we spy anything of interest and then jump back on, and end our journey at my favorite restaurant for dinner.”

“That sounds like fun,” she said, face alight with anticipation. “Today has already been the best vacation I’ve had in so long. You’re totally spoiling me.”

“On the contrary,” he said, with as much truth as gallantry, “it is you who are indulging me with the opportunity to show off my city. There’s nothing I enjoy more.”

They dressed for dinner, and the simple but impeccable dark blue dress Marta wore prompted him to say, “You look lovely,” before he could consider the propriety of complimenting a client, however technical that status might be, on her appearance. 

He exhaled in relief when she smiled, genuinely pleased, and told him, “Thank you. You look very nice, too.”

The streetcar picked them up on the corner of Carondelet Street, heading out along St. Charles Avenue. Marta slid onto one of the vintage mahogany benches and Benoit took the seat next to her. 

“This is what’s known as the Central Business District,” he explained. “We’ll then pass into the Arts and Warehouse district.”

Benoit’s knowledgeable tone drew the attention of nearby passengers, and he was soon sharing his impromptu tour of the city with a good half dozen eavesdroppers, which made Marta smile.

When the first stately homes and neat flowerbeds came into view, Benoit announced, “And here we are entering the Garden District.”

“I see how it got its name,” Marta said, staring out the window. 

There had been rain earlier in the week, and the color green in all of its depth and variations of hue burst upon the eye: trees, lawns, shrubs, ferns hanging from baskets on welcoming front porches. A veritable riot of colorful flowers bloomed in well-tended beds, window boxes, and every spare strip of ground. It made Benoit think longingly of his own garden. 

“One of my favorite bookstores is just up here,” he mentioned, with the notion that this might be of interest to Marta.

True to his suspicions, she asked eagerly, “Oh, can we take a look?”

They hopped off at the next stop and walked the block to the shop. 

“I don’t feel like you can ever really know a place until you know its bookstores,” Marta said, as they entered. 

“We are kindred spirits in that regard.”

They drifted along the aisles, casually browsing as they went. Some irresistible force seemed to draw Marta in the direction of the mystery section. Harlan’s books occupied two entire shelves, the Thrombey name jumping out at them, in large, bold lettering. 

“Walt was right.” Marta ran a hand lightly, reverently over the books’ spines. “This is a real legacy. What you said the other day, that I don’t owe Harlan anything, I do think that’s true about a lot of things he wanted. But this. His work. How he’s remembered. I feel so much responsibility to do right by him. Sometimes I worry that I won’t do a good enough job, that his family could have done it better.”

“There are times in the course of my investigations,” he confided, and it was something he rarely liked to admit to himself, “when the arc is obscured and the stakes are unspeakably high, when I worry that this may be the time my method fails, when natural law is broken, and the truth goes unrevealed to fateful consequences. Anyone who takes on a responsibility of formidable import with the seriousness it deserves will surely wonder at times whether they are equal to the task. In my opinion, humbly offered, Harlan could not have bestowed his trust on a worthier person.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I really hope you’re right.”

Benoit laid a hand on her shoulder, to offer whatever reassurance he could, and left her to pay homage to Harlan in privacy and to browse the shop according to her own literary whims. He found his way over to his usual haunt, the table featuring local authors. This was a particular reading pleasure of his, and the shelves back at his apartment were chocked full of such volumes. Sadly, or perhaps he should say fortunately, there were no new offerings to add to his collection today. He contented himself with picking up one of the books he’d read often enough to know by heart and perused his favorite passages. 

By the time Marta came to collect him, she was toting an armload of books with the very clear intention of making them her own. “What is that?” she asked, eyeing the book in his hand. 

He showed her the cover. “A favorite of mine. One of the truest voices capturing the beautiful madness that is New Orleans.” 

Marta decisively added a copy to her own pile. 

Benoit took charge of the parcel once she’d made her purchase, because his gentlemanly instincts insisted that he should, and Marta allowed it, because she was kind that way. They boarded the next streetcar and continued on a few more stops to the restaurant. 

As they exited, Benoit said, “If we kept going, eventually we’d come to Audubon Park and the zoo. Tulane and Loyola universities are out that way too. Next time you visit, we’ll have to ride to the end of the line.” 

After the words were out, Benoit second-guessed himself. It had seemed only natural that there would be a next visit, but once the mystery of Adele Hebert was solved, they might conceivably never meet again, as hard as that was to imagine at the moment. 

Marta, however, seemed to take nothing amiss with his would-be invitation, nodding in agreement to the plan. 

Commander’s Palace sat a block and a half from the streetcar stop, and when it came into sight, Benoit pointed. “Our destination for dinner.”

He watched Marta take in the bright aqua building with white trim that occupied most of the block, an old mansion whose architectural style had been dubbed by locals, “Victorian Cuckoo.” 

“I love it already,” she declared with a wide smile. 

Inside, the hostess found their reservation and showed them upstairs to the Garden Room. Floor-to-ceiling windows spanned the entire wall, looking out into the branches of the venerable old oaks that surrounded the building, as if the dining room were located in a treehouse. The hostess guided them to a table by the windows, as Benoit had requested.

Marta drew in an audible breath. “I feel like we just stepped into a painting.”

The hostess left them with menus, and they busied themselves scanning their options. 

Marta’s brow creased with consternation. “I can’t even begin to make up my mind. I want everything.”

This was the same problem Benoit invariably had whenever he dined here, and it struck him that perhaps there was a simple solution. “If you’re amenable, we could share some dishes. There are quite a few things on the menu that really shouldn’t be missed.”

“Oh, let’s do that!” Marta said gamely. 

They picked out a selection of appetizers and entrees, and Benoit asked, “A cocktail? Or we can share a bottle of wine?”

“Maybe champagne?” Marta suggested. “I don’t know why, but I feel like celebrating, although we haven’t solved the case or even made much progress on it.”

“We have the luxury of time on our side,” Benoit reminded her. “The outcome of these events was determined long ago. There’s nothing to be lost if we proceed at a more leisurely pace. And surely, taking a vacation from Thrombey-related chaos is cause for celebration if ever there was one.”

Marta laughed. “Well, I’m not going to disagree with you about that.”

The waiter came to take their order. “Let’s also have two of the bread pudding souffle,” Benoit said, and to Marta, explained, “It has to be ordered ahead of time, and you will not want to share. Trust me on this.”

The sommelier arrived with a flourish to uncork their champagne. 

Benoit lifted his glass. “To a productive partnership and solving our mystery.”

“And to enjoying good food and good company along the way,” Marta added and clinked glasses with him.

Their appetizers quickly arrived, already divided up for them because the kitchen staff were obliging that way. They each sampled the house-specialty turtle soup, gumbo, and shrimp stuffed with spicy sausage, served with pickled okra and five-pepper jelly.

It was food that deserved their full consideration, and they were the people to give it, communicating in appreciative murmurs and broken phrases of praise in between bites. The sommelier returned to fill their glasses, and the server removed their dishes in time for the arrival of their entrees, pecan crusted gulf redfish and dirty duck confit. 

“I’ve come to a decision about something,” Marta ventured, as if she’d been working up to the conversation, “and I was wondering if I could get your opinion on it?”

“I’m happy to share my thoughts, for whatever they may be worth.”

“It’s something I’ve been considering for a while, and this,” she spread her arms as if to encompass their surroundings, “just getting away from everything, it’s helped me make up my mind to do it.” She took in a long breath. “I’m going to give Harlan’s house to his family. I just—I think about what it would be like if something happened to my mom, and Alice and I had no right to her things and the memories they hold. Letting the family have the house, it’s the right thing to do.”

“I told you once that I knew you would follow your heart when it came to the Thrombeys,” he said, “so this turn of affairs does not surprise me in the slightest. It is exactly the sort of good-heartedness that I expect from you.”

“I don’t know about that,” Marta said, making a dubious face. “It’s just—I understand why Harlan did what he did, not leave his estate to his family. He thought he’d done them a disservice by letting them orbit around him instead of making lives of their own. Although why exactly he chose me I’m not really sure.”

“I do,” Benoit volunteered. “Because you understood Harlan, as I believe few others have ever done. He respected you, and he trusted in your kind heart, a faith I myself happen to share.”

Marta’s expression went soft. “It’s nice to think that. I know it might sound odd, but Harlan’s really one of the best friends I’ve ever had.”

Benoit shook his head. “It doesn’t sound odd at all. I believe you were the same for him.”

“Still,” she said, heaving out a sigh. “It doesn’t change the fact that another reason he left me his estate was because he believed that would somehow magically remove the arguments that came between Linda and Walt and Joni and all the rest of them, and they could be a happy family. And that’s something I don’t feel is my responsibility. The Thrombeys’ problems are their own. I want to give them the house and leave them to figure out their shit for themselves.” 

“I think that’s a wise decision for you and a very kind one toward the Thrombeys,” Benoit told her. 

Kindness they’d done nothing to deserve, but then, that went without saying. 

Marta leaned in, voice dipping confidentially. “It’s not me being nice. I just want to get them out of my life.”

Benoit angled nearer and matched her tone. “Some might accomplish that with a restraining order. Your method is to hand over a fortune in real estate. I insist on calling that kind, although you are, of course, free to continue rejecting the term.”

Marta laughed, and the sound was so light and unfettered that it warmed him to hear it. “I’m not going to argue you into thinking poorly of me, Benoit. And thanks for giving me your opinion. It means a lot to me.”

He held her gaze. “If I was able to put your mind at ease at all, then I’m glad.”

The bread pudding souffles arrived, along with coffee and brandy, and after the first bite, Marta declared, “Okay, I’m glad you ordered two. I seriously would have fought you for this, and I would hate our friendship to end over dessert.” 

Benoit laughed, and it struck him that he felt truly content in this moment, with Marta claiming him as a friend. 

They ended the meal with a tug-of-war over who got to pay the bill, ultimately won by Marta whose determination was not to be gainsaid. The day’s warmth still lingered in the air as they emerged back outside, Marta laughing and giddy, most likely a little tipsy, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. Benoit fended off the urge to light up a cigar, quite certain she wouldn’t approve. They started to walk, retracing the path to the streetcar stop.

“This has been the best day,” she said, a little wistfully. “I wish it didn’t have to end.”

“Who says it does?” he countered. “Not just yet, anyway. If you’re up for one more stop, there is a very important aspect of life in New Orleans that we have yet to experience. I would be remiss if I allowed this neglect to continue much longer.”

“That sounds very mysterious.”

“What say you, Watson? Are you up for continuing the adventure?” 

She laughed, delightedly. “You know I am.”

Benoit pulled out his phone and tapped their location into the rideshare app. Ten minutes later, they pulled up in front of an unprepossessing yellow clapboard building. 

“Tipitina’s?” Marta read the sign on the front. “What’s that?”

Benoit smiled. “You’ll see.”

As soon as they exited the car, Marta murmured, “Ah,” the mystery solved, with strains of Zydeco music spilling out of the venue.

Benoit paid the admission, and they checked Marta’s shopping bag of books before finding a table in the back. The band tonight was a local favorite, and the couples twirling around the floor were mostly native New Orleanians with the occasional tourists mixed in. 

“Beer?” At Marta’s nod, Benoit went to fetch them from the bar. 

“This is great,” Marta said when he returned, leaning in to be heard above the music.

“Would you care to give it a go?” Benoit nodded toward the dance floor. 

Marta eyed the dancers uncertainly. “I don’t know how to do whatever they’re doing.”

“Cajun two-step,” Benoit told her. “I can lead you through it if you want to give it a try.”

She held out her hand to him. “I apologize in advance for stomping on your feet.”

He took her hand with a smile and led her out to the floor. That preemptive apology of hers had been entirely misplaced, as he had expected it would be. She was graceful on her feet and quickly got the hang of the quick, quick, slow, slow rhythm. 

“This reminds me a little of growing up in Ecuador,” Marta said, with a glance around at the other couples. “Everyone dances. It’s part of our culture. How we celebrate. I always found it strange that so many people in the US don’t know how.”

“Your culture and my culture sound as if they share something important in common, a joyousness in their roots.” Benoit twirled Marta, and a spontaneous laugh bubbled out of her. 

The two-step was a decorous dance, compared to some others. Benoit’s hand rested on Marta’s waist, hers on his shoulder, their other hands clasped, and a good two feet of space between them. Still, it felt thrillingly intimate to be even this close to her, sliding through the steps in effortless sync, as if they were of one mind, that uncanny sense of connection between them that he’d felt since their first conversation out on the porch at Two Deerborn Drive.

It was not a sensation he was eager to lose, and they danced all through the band’s long set, until they were worn out in the most pleasant of ways, breathless, faces warm and flushed. Only when they couldn’t dance another step did they collect Marta’s books and start for home, walking arm in arm, Marta humming beneath her breath, a melody from one of the songs the band had played. 

Back at his building, the creaky elevator conveyed them upwards, and Benoit had never been so grateful for the finicky thing, saving their tired feet three flights of stairs. Marta followed him down the hallway of his apartment, and when he turned around, she surged forward, wrapping him up in a big hug. 

It was instinct to return the embrace, to fold his arms around her and draw her in, breathing in the delicate scent of her shampoo. The rightness of holding her this close, the warmth and shape of her, as if they’d been designed for one another’s arm—well, he’d never felt anything like it before. 

She pulled back, and he ran a hand lightly along her cheek, brushing her hair back, unable to take his eyes off her. It would be so easy to let himself lean in. In fact, he couldn’t remember ever wanting anything more. But the possibility of making a fool of himself was great, and worse yet, the very real danger of spoiling the sweetness of their friendship. 

He let his hand fall away.

A great, wracking yawn shook Marta, and she murmured, “Sorry.”

He shook his head, smiling fondly. “It’s been a lot of excitement for one day. Time for us both to get some sleep, I’d say.”

Outside her room, Marta paused. “Thank you for my wonderful day, Benoit. I haven’t had this much fun in a really long time.”

She looked at him with her big, earnest eyes, and reflected in them, he knew, was her even bigger heart. Oh yes, he was in very great danger, indeed. 

“I had a lovely day as well,” he managed, without embarrassing himself. “Thank you for sharing it with me, Marta. Sleep well.”

As he was brushing his teeth, an arc that had begun on the porch of Harley Thrombey’s home completed itself, and here now was the resolution of his own inner mystery falling at his feet, plain to see. He was in love with Marta, and had been for quite some time, possibly from that moment when she agreed to assist with his investigation, a telltale spot of blood on her shoe and trepidation in her expression, even as she pushed forward with courage despite it all. He hadn’t known then, not with any degree of certainty, if she were truly innocent of all wrongdoing. Somehow, it hadn’t mattered. As he’d told her earlier that evening, he trusted in her kind heart.

“Well, hell,” he said to himself in the mirror.

* * *

After such a revelation, Benoit might have expected to toss and turn, teasing through the implications of it into the wee hours, but realizing he was in love with Marta could not forestall the inevitable outcome of a busy day, a late night, and more than a little champagne. He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep that was interrupted far too soon by some infernal racket.

He found that the hellish noise was, upon waking a little further, his phone. He blearily blinked at the screen and saw it was his assistant who had been looking into Berniece Sauder, noting with surprise that the hour was already past 10. 

The smell of coffee bloomed welcomely in the air, and when he finished the call, he pulled on his clothes and followed the scent. He found Marta in the kitchen, slumped against the counter, still sleepy looking, clutching her mug.

“I hope you don’t mind.” She waved a hand in the direction of the coffeemaker. 

“Of course not. I hope my phone didn’t wake you.”

She shook her head. “I was already awake. Drinking always messes with my sleep. Coffee?”

He nodded, and when she passed him a mug, he murmured, “Bless you.” After several much-needed sips, he brought her up to speed on the latest development. “The good news, Berniece Sauder is alive and living in a nursing home not far from here. The not-so good news, my associate couldn’t find next of kin we might ask for permission to pay Mrs. Sauder a visit. We’ll have to take our chances and see if the staff at the facility will oblige us.”

They finished their coffee, got dressed, and went to grab a bite. At Marta’s behest, they stopped at the local market to purchase a gift basket for Mrs. Sauder with some fruit, cookies, and other treats. Through it all, Benoit was relieved to find that nothing had changed between them from the day before, their rapport just as comfortable as it had been. Whatever his own feelings might be, they had not intruded on Marta’s notice, but instead, remained his own private concern, as they should be. 

It was a short drive to the nursing home, located in a quiet neighborhood, on a block of mixed businesses, opposite a locksmith and pawn shop, down the street from St. Mary’s church. The building was far more modest than the complex where Reggie lived, but inside, everything was neat as a pin and determinedly cheery, with butter yellow paint on the walls, floral print curtains at the windows, and homey furnishings.

At the desk, Benoit asked if they might visit with Mrs. Sauder. “She knew my father a long time ago. We heard she was here, and we thought we’d stop by and pay our respects, if that would be all right.”

The lady working the desk seemed pleased at the prospect. “The poor thing doesn’t have any family who come to see her, although some of our local church folk do check in. On her good days, she loves having company. But you should know she does get confused sometimes, and if it turns out to be one of those days, then we’ll need to end the visit.”

She led them to Mrs. Sauder’s room and greeted the tiny, gray-haired lady sitting by the window, looking child-sized in an overstuffed recliner, “Hey there, Berniece. I have the nicest surprise. There are people here to see you.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Sauder,” Benoit said, with all the good manners his mamma had taught him. “How are you today?”

Mrs. Sauder stared at him, a crease between her brows, as if trying to place him, and suddenly her expression brightened. “Detective Blanc! Have you come because you’ve found Adele?”

One of the peculiarities of the human memory, Benoit knew, was that age often made the happenings of long seem more alive than the present day. Mrs. Sauder took him for his father, whom she hadn’t seen in a good sixty years, and awaited his answer as eagerly as if Adele Hebert disappeared yesterday. 

“I wish I could say we have,” he told her gently, “but we’re still looking. It sure would help us if you could tell us a little more about her.”

The older lady blinked in bafflement. “But I already told you everything I know.”

“Sometimes it helps to hear it again,” Benoit told her. “If you would indulge us, can you start by telling us about the Clayton household?” 

Mrs. Sauder snorted. “What a hornet’s nest that was. I was a Clayton myself before I married, although from a poor branch of the family. Giving me that housekeeper job was their idea of helping out after my husband passed. Lord knows, they were the ones who needed the help. That was not a happy household.”

Benoit exchanged a look with Marta. This seemed a promising beginning. Mrs. Sauder had certainly been in a position to know the family’s secrets. 

“Who lived in the house at that time?” he prompted. 

“Henry Senior and his son and daughter-in-law. If ever there were people who should not be living under the same roof, it was those three.”

Marta spoke up, asking the question that Benoit also wondered about, “How did Adele come to be hired?”

Mrs. Sauder scrunched up her forehead. “Are you a policewoman?”

A stricken expression crossed Marta’s face. She couldn’t lie, not even in the service of solving their case or to humor a vulnerable old lady who might easily grow confused if her understanding of reality were contradicted. 

“She’s assisting my investigation,” Benoit spoke up, to Marta’s obvious relief. 

Mrs. Sauder nodded, satisfied with the explanation. “The way Adele was hired, that’s how I knew there was going to be trouble. You’ve got to understand. Henry Senior had always left everything to do with the household to his wife, and after she passed, he had no clue about any of it. Henry Junior just wanted his supper served on time, and he didn’t want to know how it got that way. His wife sure wasn’t going to lift a finger. That left me to manage the staff. I did the hiring and firing both. But not with Adele.”

“Mr. Henry Clayton, Junior hired her?” Benoit surmised.

“And you should have seen how much he was paying her, too,” Mrs. Sauder said, with a shake of her head. “That family didn’t get rich by being generous with the help.”

“What did Adele do for the Claytons?” Marta asked. 

“Worked in the kitchen. Junior had hired a fancy chef from New Orleans, and Adele was supposed to help him with whatever needed doing.”

“How was she as an employee?” Benoit wanted to know. “What was her work ethic like?”

“Oh, she was a hard worker,” Mrs. Sauder said, in an approving tone. “All those Heberts are hardy people. She could lift and carry as well as most men. And she was eager, too. Wanted to please. Adele needed that job, and she was doing her best to keep it. At first, anyway.”

That pricked Benoit’s interest. “At first, you say? Then something changed?”

Mrs. Sauder nodded sadly. “It was maybe two weeks after she started when she took to disappearing on the job, for an hour or more at a time. I’d ask her what she’d been doing, and she’d just look all bewildered. Stammer out that Mr. Clayton had asked for her help, and hadn’t he told me about it? He never had, and when I asked him about it, he claimed to have no idea.”

This was mysterious indeed, and Marta asked, “What did you think was going on?”

Benoit was interested to hear the answer. Even at this distance of years, Mrs. Sauder still seemed to have good command of the facts. In her day, he suspected she had been a formidably good judge of character.

“I had no notion,” was all Mrs. Sauder could offer. “I mean, if she’d been anything to look at, I would have thought it was the usual trouble a young girl can get into in a house like that. If she’d been lazy and no account, I would have assumed she’d just been goofing off and lying about it. But she was a good worker, and truly, didn’t have that kind of deceit in her.”

Benoit leaned in. “What happened next, Mrs. Sauder?”

“Well, it went on like that for some time, and then all hell broke loose, if you’ll pardon the expression. I still feel bad about the part I played in it, but given what I saw, I don’t know what I could have done different.” 

“What was it that you saw, Mrs. Sauder?” Marta asked, almost as if she were afraid to hear the answer. 

“Adele, in Henry Senior’s bedroom, standing over his bed, holding a bottle, one of those amber colored ones like medicine comes in, except it didn’t have any label on it. Henry Senior had started taking naps in the afternoon once he got older, but as far as I knew, he wasn’t sick and didn’t take any medication. And you should have seen the way he was looking at Adele. Like he hated her and was terrified of her, all at the same time. I’ve never ever seen an expression like that on anybody’s face, not before or since.”

“Did Adele say anything?” Benoit asked.

“Only that Junior asked her to do it.”

“Which he denied?” Marta said. 

“He sure did,” Mrs. Sauder’s dislike for the man was obvious. “And when I went to find Adele, to talk to her about it, she’d gone. I never saw her again. As far as I know, nobody else ever did, either. It was that night when Henry Senior passed.”

At last, the events hinted at in Harlan’s journal came into focus. “Mrs. Sauder, is it your estimation that Adele caused the death of Mr. Henry Clayton, Senior?”

Mrs. Sauder shook her head. “That’s what everybody gossiped about in the house when the family wasn’t around to hear them, but I never believed it. In some ways, Adele was as innocent as a newborn, and if it came down to believing her or Junior, I knew who I was picking.”

“What do you think happened to Adele?” Marta asked softly. 

Mrs. Sauder fixed her with a look, sadness mixed with resignation. “I always hoped she ran away and got somewhere safe and has a good life now, but I doubt it. A body stays hidden easier than a living person. And then there was everything Junior and his wife were whispering about with the will—”

A nurse bustled into the room. “Hey there, Berniece. How’re you today? I’ve got your meds for you.”

“What about the will, Mrs. Sauder?” Benoit asked, careful to keep his voice neutral. 

“I’m sorry,” the nurse turned a professional smile on them, “y’all are going to have to wait outside until Mrs. Sauder has had her medication.”

“But—” Benoit started, only to have better angels prevail in the form of Marta reaching for his arm to lead him from the room. 

“It’ll just take a few minutes,” the nurse promised.

Once they were outside in the hall, Marta said, in a hushed tone, “The will.”

Benoit squinted his eyes, sorting through the known facts in his head, trying to slot them into place. “Our case has, indeed, taken a most unexpected turn.”

Marta shot him a baffled look. “I mean, she has to be talking about Clayton Senior’s will, right?”

“I can imagine no other, but what could Adele possibly have to do with that?”

“Maybe she’s even more like me than I thought,” Marta said.

That was an intriguing possibility. “Let’s put it to Mrs. Sauder and find out.”

However, when the nurse emerged and they were allowed back inside, it quickly became clear that getting the answers they sought would not be accomplished so readily. 

“Can I help you?” Mrs. Sauder stared at them blankly and then with the beginnings of alarm. “What do you want? I don’t know you.”

Marta took the lead. “No, that’s right, Mrs. Sauder, you don’t,” she said soothingly. “We’re just dropping off a little something for you.” She presented the gift basket, setting it down on the table next to Mrs. Sauder’s recliner.

The elderly woman’s expression transformed from fearfulness to delight. “Oh, how lovely! Are you from St. Mary’s? What a nice young lady you are to think of me.”

“We sure do hope you enjoy it, Mrs. Sauder,” Benoit said. “Good day to you now.”

Mrs. Sauder smiled happily. “Thank you, young man.”

Once they were back in the car, Marta asked, “Now what?”

“I’ll call my assistant and get him to look into the issue of the will. In the meanwhile, we head to the source that has jumpstarted many an investigation.” 

“What’s that?”

“The public library.”

* * *

They drove straight to the Central Business District, where the main branch of the New Orleans public library was situated. It was a frequent destination for Benoit, housing several very helpful research archives, including the Louisiana Division, a repository of local resources that boasted a collection of newspapers from all over the state going back to the early 19th century. If there had ever been a question over the death of Henry Clayton, Senior, surely it would have made the front page of the town’s newspaper.

Ms. Edmée Abellard, a fixture at the archive and one of the best research librarians to be found, greeted Benoit with a kiss to the cheek. “Well, look who it is. We haven’t seen you in a dog’s age, Benoit.”

“It’s a pleasure as always, Ms. Abellard. May I introduce you to Miss Marta Cabrera?”

Ms. Abellard shook hands with Marta. “Good to meet you, Miss Cabrera. Any friend of Benoit’s, as they say. Now, I know you two didn’t come by for a social visit, so how can I help?”

Benoit took her up on the offer. “We’re interested in a matter of local history. Would it be possible for us to see issues of the Ashburn News Leader from April and May of 1959?”

Ms. Abellard nodded. “We’ve got those on microfiche. You all head on down to the reading room, and I’ll bring you the folios.”

Benoit and Marta seated themselves side by side at microfiche readers, and Ms. Abellard soon appeared. He and Marta started at the beginning of April, dividing the films between them and methodically scanning through articles. 

“Oh,” Marta exclaimed.

Benoit looked over with interest. “Find something?”

“No, I mean, not about the case. It’s an article written by Harlan.” The corner of her mouth quirked up, despite her very apparent efforts not to find humor in it. “Mrs. Ida Mae Lewiston’s double chocolate fudge brownies won the blue ribbon in the cookies and bars division at the annual Ashburn bakeoff.”

Benoit cracked a smile. “I do see why Harlan turned to fiction.”

They found no mention of Adele Hebert or the Clayton family until April 9th, three days after the last entry relating to the case in Harlan’s journal, and that wasn’t on the front page or the crime blotter, but in the obituaries, an entire page dedicated to praising Henry Clayton, Senior’s many virtues in the most flowery of language. Benoit suspected that this, too, was a work of fiction.

Marta read over his shoulder. “It says he passed peacefully at home,” her voice faltered, “from natural causes.”

Benoit reached for the next folio. “Let’s keep checking the following days to see if there’s any mention of Adele or a second look into Clayton Senior’s death.”

They spent the next hour methodically searching through articles, up until the end of May, but there was nothing. No investigation into Clayton Senior’s death. No search for a missing young woman or a manhunt for a suspect on the lamb.

“No mention of the will, either,” Marta said. “I mean, I know this was a long time ago, but human nature never changes. If Clayton Senior had left any part of his estate to a woman who worked in his house, it would have made the papers.” Her words held the certainty that came from experience in such matters.

Benoit pondered that conundrum. “If whatever took place back then transpired out in the cold light of day, then, yes, that would be the case, but I suspect it was very much the opposite.” 

Marta worried her lip nervously. “How can we find out who did inherit?”

“Well, the City archive is also here in this building, with public records going back to the 18th century, but my research assistant’s methods will be much quicker. Let’s check in and see if he’s made any progress yet.”

The call proved productive, and Benoit conveyed to Marta what he’d learned, “Henry Clayton, Junior was his father’s sole heir. There was no mention of any other bequests and no hint of anything questionable or untoward to do with the probate. Clayton Junior passed fifteen years ago, and apart from some gifts to charity, his daughter, Alice Clayton, inherited what was left of the family assets. Apparently, fortunes have not been kind to the once mighty Claytons. The daughter is an ecologist and works as director of the Sapphire Creek wildlife preserve. That’s not far from Ashburn.” 

“Not as helpful as I was hoping for,” Marta said, the words tinged with disappointment.

“No, but my assistant did find one thing of interest after some digging. Two death certificates for Clayton Senior. On the first, the coroner set the cause of death as undetermined, but the one that superseded it specified natural causes, a sudden cardiac event.”

Marta looked at him, puzzled. “Why would there be two?”

“That is precisely the question we need to ask, and I think I know where we should start. At the Sapphire Creek wildlife preserve.”

“If whatever happened was done under the table, then the people most likely to know about it are the Claytons,” Marta said, following his train of thought.

“You got it, Watson.”

“Do you think Alice Clayton will agree to talk to us?” Marta asked, doubtfully. 

“Only one way to find out.”

* * *

Benoit’s house lay not far from Ashburn, so he suggested to Marta, “If we leave within the hour, we can arrive in time for dinner, spend the night, and go see Dr. Clayton at her office first thing the next morning. With any luck, we’ll catch her before the demands of the work day monopolize her attention.”

“And I’ll get to see your garden,” Marta said, with a bright smile.

Benoit nodded. “It will be my very great pleasure to show it to you.”

They took the scenic route, along winding, country roads, riding quietly, lost in their own thoughts, content to enjoy the company and the passing landscape. There was a little market that Benoit frequented in the town nearby his house, and they stopped there to pick up supplies and the makings of dinner. 

“How about pasta and salad?” he asked as they trailed through the store’s few aisles. “I’m thinking tomato sauce, a little cream, some shrimp, maybe some andouille.” Marta’s stomach rumbled, and Benoit smiled. “I’m going to take that as a ‘yes’.”

They drove on, and when the car crested a rise, the house came into view. Twenty years of getaways here, and the first sight of the place still brought with it a warm sense of homecoming. 

“It’s called a shotgun house,” Benoit explained. “They say it’s because the design allows you to shoot buckshot from the front door straight through and out the back door.”

Marta’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “Okay, as a city person, I can’t imagine why that would ever be necessary, and as a nurse, I would definitely recommend against firing guns inside the house. Or anywhere else, for that matter.” She turned a warm smile on him. “But it’s a lovely place.”

The house sat tucked away in a grove of hickory trees, one of the things that had attracted Benoit to it in the first place. The branches formed a wide canopy, offering both shade and much-valued privacy, and in the fall, the ground was covered with a veritable treasure trove of hickory nuts. He parked and took charge of their bags, ushering Marta up the front stairs and inside. A wide hallway ran the length of the structure, with rooms opening off of it on either side. 

“Let me show you to your room.”

“And then I want a tour,” Marta said, with a curious glance around. 

“My sense of home pride thanks you for the request,” he told her, with a smile.

The house was compact in size, with living and dining rooms, two beds and baths, a little spare room he used as a study, kitchen at the back and a screened porch off of that. He’d kept the décor simple: soothing paint colors on the walls, a few rugs on the wide-planked wooden floors, plain iron beds, a comfortable worn sofa and easy chairs, and a rugged farmhouse table, not unlike the one at the Thrombey house. 

Marta marveled as she looked around, “I feel like my mind and my senses can truly rest here.” She touched his arm. “Benoit, you’ve created such a—sanctuary, that’s what I have to call it. When I finally get settled, I hope I can make a home like this.”

He told her sincerely, “Marta, I have to imagine that anywhere you live will be just like you, warm and welcoming.” 

Her cheeks pinked delicately at that, and she held his gaze, her hand still on his arm. The moment seemed like it might stretch on, and Benoit felt torn between doing nothing that might end it and doing nothing to reveal feelings that were entirely his own issue to manage. 

Clearing his throat broke the—whatever this was between them. “I do, though, spend most of my time out here.” He led the way through the French doors into the yard. 

The hickory grove curved around the back of the house, creating a sheltered area with the feeling of a walled-in garden. Stone paths wound amongst the flower beds, an intentionally cultivated wildness to the plantings, because to Benoit’s way of thinking, the English cottage garden was the most beautiful garden of all. 

“This is so lovely,” Marta said, with hushed awe. “How do you ever bring yourself to leave here?”

“I wonder that myself, more and more often these days.”

Blooms spilled over into the walkway, brushing their legs as they went, releasing the flowers’ sweet perfume. They passed beneath an arbor heavy with climbing roses, spare tendrils billowing in the breeze. 

“I find this spot to be particularly conducive to reflection.” He pointed out the bench tucked away in a bed of snapdragons and salvia. 

“I can see why.” Marta took a deep breath and let it out with a contented sigh. “These days, my mind is always racing with things I need to remember or take care of or ask Alan about. But here, it feels like none of that can touch me. Like I can think about what really matters.”

They wended their way back around to the house and the stone-paved patio with table and chairs. “I was thinking we could eat out here, if you like.”

“Oh, yes, please,” Marta readily agreed. 

“I’m going to go get busy in the kitchen. Dinner won’t take long. Can I get you something? Water? Wine?”

“I’ll come with you.” 

Some of Benoit’s happiest memories of childhood had taken place in his mamma’s and grandmamma’s kitchens. He’d meant it when he’d told Marta that it was his favorite room, and he’d taken special pains to make this kitchen a place where he’d enjoy cooking. A wall of windows overlooked the garden, and a door led out onto the screened porch. He’d found the oversized farmhouse sink at a salvage yard and splurged on the French range of his dreams. A tall built-in shelf held his collection of cookbooks. 

“Wow,” Marta said, in a hushed tone, which Benoit appreciated. “I’ve never seen a more perfect kitchen. My mom always says it’s the kitchen that’s the heart of the home.”

“Your mother and I are of a like mind.” He pulled a bottle from the wine rack. “Can I pour you a glass?”

“Please. And give me a job to do. I want to help. And I’m not just saying that because I’m starving.”

He laughed and set her to making the salad while he put the sauce together and boiled the pasta. They worked companionably, sipping their wine and effortlessly navigating around one another as if they had long practice at it. The weather was still holding by the time the food was done, lingering warmth and no sign of rain, so they carried the dishes outside to the little table on the patio. 

Marta took a bite of her pasta and made an enthusiastic noise that Benoit found deeply gratifying. “You’ve been holding out on me. You’re an amazing cook. I mean, I figured from the looks of your kitchen. But seriously. Amazing.”

He smiled. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it. Now, indulge me if you will, and give me your impression of where we are with our case. Talking it through is—”

“Part of your process,” Marta finished the sentence with him. “What I can’t stop thinking about is the will. Did Henry Clayton, Senior really leave something to Adele? Why would he? I keep remembering what Mrs. Sauder said about the way he looked at her.”

“Like he hated her and was terrified of her, all at the same time,” Benoit quoted the lady. “Perhaps she was his illegitimate daughter, the product of a liaison he regretted. He might have feared the possibility of scandal should the tie become public knowledge and wrongly blamed Adele, instead of himself, for the position he was in.”

“Yeah, that could be it.” She sounded unsatisfied with the explanation, though. 

“Something is nagging at you.”

“But I don’t know what it is,” she said, with a long, frustrated exhale. “Just feels like I’m overlooking something, and if I could figure out what it is, then everything would fall together.”

Benoit nodded thoughtfully. “I feel it too, In my experience, that’s a promising sign for an investigation. Tomorrow, we’ll continue to gather facts, and hopefully that piece will fall into the place, and a clear picture will emerge from the fragments.” 

They polished off their dinner and, since it was growing chilly, headed inside for dessert. Marta made coffee, while Benoit sliced the sweet potato pecan pie they’d picked up at the market, located a bottle of tawny port, and fixed a tray to carry everything into the living room. To knock the chill out of the room, he busied himself setting a fire, getting a good blaze going, before joining Marta on the sofa. 

The day had been a busy one, and it felt good to stop and rest a while in the glow of the fire, the food and wine putting him in a mellow frame of mind. Marta relaxed back against the cushions, tucked up at his side, so close he could feel the in-and-out of her breath, her airy satisfied sigh. 

“It’s so peaceful and comfortable here,” she said, serenely. “I mean, it’s quiet at Harlan’s, but this is different somehow.” She angled a glance at him. “Pretty sure it’s the company.”

It was said so affectionately, and she was so very lovely sitting there, hair tousled from the breeze outside, face alight with humor and intelligence and the kindness that was her defining trait. He wanted so badly to cup her cheek in his hand, to feel the softness of her skin, and lean in—but he shouldn’t. He wouldn’t. 

Only Marta was, her mouth soft and warm, pressed firmly against his. 

“I’ve been waiting for you to do that,” she said, her breath against his lips. “Finally, I have to take matters into my own hands.”

Benoit knew himself to be a disciplined man, cautious by nature, but even the most steel-like will had its limits. He drew Marta to him, and she came eagerly, pressing close, warm and so very soft in his arms. He kissed her deeply, stroking one hand through her lovely hair and the other across her back, clutching her even nearer, long-suppressed passion for her leaping hotly in his blood.

A little sound escaped Marta, helpless and needy, penetrating the haze of his desire, making him freeze in place. 

He drew back with a snap of conscience. “I’m sorry, truly. I don’t mean to take advantage of your or of this situation.”

Marta snorted. “Benoit, you do know that I’m 32 years old, right? Also, if you remember, I kissed you first.”

He took her hands in his and regarded her with all due seriousness. “Marta, I have heard you on two separate occasions credit me with saving you during the Thrombey investigation. It would be ungentlemanly to capitalize on any sense of gratitude you might feel toward me in order to gain your affections.”

“Benoit.” It was the tone a patient person might take with a slow, if cherished child. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe you gained my affections by being the kind of man who would care about that?”

He looked at her intently. “If I could believe that—”

Her mouth curved into a sweet smile. “I can’t lie, remember?”

They kissed and stumbled their way to the bedroom, shedding clothes. Benoit lived so much in his mind that he hadn’t even realized how touch starved he was. But then, he couldn’t remember another time when being with someone felt like this, the tantalizing first glimpse of skin when Marta drew her shirt up over her head and let it drop, the soft weight of her breast in his hand, her mouth hot and demanding on his neck, her fingers curled tightly against his biceps. 

The bed dipped with their weight, and Marta was as fevered as he was, murmuring his name, touching him eagerly, everywhere she could reach, as if she thought she might not get the chance again. It struck him that he should tell her how much he wanted—that he very much hoped—had it been only yesterday he’d fretted over the possibility that she’d return to Massachusetts and he might never see her again? 

But there were so many other things that he needed to do: bury his face between her thighs, her fingers curling in his hair, and when she’d come and come again, to slide into her slick, welcoming body, his lips against her throat, her legs locked tightly around his waist as she moved with him, calling out “yes” like a benediction. 

Talking would surely keep for later.

In the morning, he woke early, dawn a pink-purple splash on the horizon, feeling worn out in the most pleasant of ways, with the nearly irrepressible desire to whistle a jaunty show tune. This jubilance dimmed somewhat when he realized that the bed was empty next to him. Uncertainty elbowed its way into his happiness. Perhaps he had overstepped, after all. Perhaps, Marta had awoken with regrets. If that were the case, it would be better to face it now rather than to let any uncomfortableness fester. They were both adults, after all, and they would see their way past what happened last night, if that proved necessary. He pulled on a robe and went to look for her.

He found her standing at the French doors, wearing his shirt that he’d discarded on the bedroom floor last night, sipping coffee, and staring thoughtfully out into the morning. At his approach, she turned, and her smile blinded him with the joy in it—joy and affection that were somehow all for him. 

He went to join her. “You were looking very contemplative.”

She set down her mug and moved to embrace him, letting out a soft, contented breath. “I was thinking how beautiful everything is around here and how happy it makes me.”

“Is that so?” He brushed a kiss to her temple, smiling.

She drew back and nodded. “My mom would like it too. She always says that it’s too cold in Boston. Would you mind having us for neighbors?” 

He met her gaze, his heart so very full. “I think you know that I would be delighted beyond the expressing of it.”

Marta reached for his hand and led him back to the bedroom, their plans for the day receding in the wake of more urgent priorities.

* * *

In hindsight, the beginning of a love affair did not make for the ideal condition in which to pursue an investigation, especially not one involving a sixty-year-old mystery that was all but forgotten by the world, and whose outcome could not be affected by their actions. If Benoit followed his heart and stayed where he was, languorous and content, with Marta splendidly naked and resting in his arms, no wrongdoer would go unpunished, no victim denied justice. The power to exact either of those worthy goals had long since turned to dust. Certainly, he believed that the truth mattered in and of itself, but it did not necessarily follow that he needed to put on pants and continue the search for it just at the moment. 

“We could go see Alice Clayton tomorrow,” he floated the idea, idly stroking a hand through Marta’s hair. 

“Hmmph,” she said against his shoulder, not a word in the purest sense, but as communicative as if it were an entire sentence. 

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Or we can go now.” 

She shifted to look at him. “Part of me wants to never move from this bed again. But I also need to see this through. I owe it to Adele. And when it’s done, then we can think about what comes next.”

 _What comes next_ was a decidedly thrilling notion, and to advance that cause, Benoit would graciously sacrifice his present comfort. “If we leave in fifteen minutes, we can still get there before the park opens.”

Marta scrambled up. It was a mad dash to find clothes, grab coffee, and get out the door, but they managed it. 

The road into the Sapphire Creek preserve took them past marshes teeming with birds and wildlife of all varieties. In the distance, Cypress and longleaf pine trees created a thick forest with a widespread canopy. Pedestrian walkways passed over the wetlands, allowing visitors to explore the park without disrupting its delicate ecosystem. 

“I can smell the sea,” Marta said, eyes closed as she took deep breaths, the wind ruffling her hair. 

Benoit had to remind himself to keep his eyes on the road. “The Gulf isn’t terribly far from here. Maybe we can go take a walk on the beach one day.”

At the preserve, signs pointed the way to the administrative office. Benoit gave his name to the receptionist and asked for a quick word with Dr. Clayton. 

The receptionist eyed them doubtfully, although he didn’t know whether it was because they didn’t seem the type to have business with the preserve’s director or because their rush to leave the house left them looking less than presentable. “I’ll have to see if Dr. Clayton is in.” The receptionist disappeared and returned, not bothering to hide his surprise as he said, “Let me show you back.”

They followed him along a rabbit’s warden of corridors to her office. Benoit’s investigations took him often enough into the inner circles of power, and Alice Clayton struck him as a woman would have been at home in any corporate boardroom, fiftyish, tidy and professional in a well-tailored pantsuit, exuding the energy of a born leader, the kind of assurance that came with calling the shots and having subordinates jump to follow orders.

She rose from behind her desk and offered her hand. “Mr. Blanc, I do, of course, know you by reputation. And—” Her gaze shifted. 

“My associate, Marta Cabrera.” As Benoit made the introduction, it struck him that, while he’d had many assistants over the years and had worked in conjunction with any number of police departments, he had never before teamed up with someone who could rightly be called a partner in an investigation. And yet, Marta had slotted so seamlessly into that role. 

“Please.” Dr. Clayton motioned them toward the chairs facing her desk. “To what do I owe the honor of a visit from the famed Benoit Blanc?” 

She had an impressive poker face, Benoit would give her that, but from the moment they’d entered the office, he’d sensed no surprise or even idle curiosity coming from her. The absence of a reaction could be as telling as an overt display of emotion.

He smiled, in an ingratiating way. “If you will permit me, I believe you already know why we’re here, Dr. Clayton. I believe you’ve been expecting a visit like ours for some time now.”

She studied him for a long moment. “Perhaps I have been,” she conceded. “Although I did imagine it would be reporters or somebody writing a book, not a private detective. May I ask what your interest is?”

“Ours is solely a personal quest,” Benoit assured her.

It didn’t appear that Dr. Clayton found his reassurance particularly convincing. That left it to Marta. She leaned forward, leveling with the other woman, her sincerity impossible to mistake. “I found some old papers that gave hints about what happened, and I hoped to find out the rest of the story. For reasons of my own, I identify with Adele.”

This did elicit a spark of interest from Dr. Clayton, although she didn’t ask the obvious question: why did Marta identify with Adele? Perhaps, she thought it would be rude or, more likely, because she had no intention of putting herself in a position where she might be expected to reciprocate with information of her own. 

“If you will oblige us,” Benoit continued, “I can promise that nothing you share will go beyond this circle.”

He wasn’t necessarily expecting this to work, but after a long, considering look, Dr. Clayton declared, “Let’s take a walk. There’s something I’d like to show you.”

She led the way out of the office, down a path, and over a gangway that crossed a narrow finger of the bayou, to a scenic overlook offering a prime view of the marshland. Benoit imagined this was a popular spot with the park’s visitors, but at this early hour, it was both tranquil and private.

Dr. Clayton looked out over the water, meditatively, as if staring down the dusty lengths of time. “You have to understand, all of that happened before I was born. I never knew a thing about it until my father was dying. He became eager to confess the family sins then.” A bitterness crept into her voice, as if the relationship between father and daughter was a whole other woeful tale. “I’m curious. How much do you know about it?”

“Not as much as we’d like,” Marta admitted. “A woman named Adele Hebert worked in your family’s home. There was some trouble, and she disappeared. That same night, your grandfather passed away. Someone suggested that Adele might have had something to do with it and that there might have been a connection to your grandfather’s will, although we don’t know what.”

“This was the connection.” Dr. Clayton spread her arms, indicating the landscape before them. “My family stole this land twice from the Hebert family.”

It seemed the story was even more Byzantine than Benoit had imagined. “Can you tell us about it?” 

Dr. Clayton took in a long breath and began, “It was my grandfather who did the stealing initially, of course. As my father told the story, the Heberts somehow came to need money, and my grandfather swooped in with an offer to buy this land at a cut-rate price, couched as an act of charity. What he knew and the Heberts didn’t is that there’s a fortune in oil beneath our feet.”

That was quite an advantage to have in a business negotiation. “How did he come by this knowledge, I wonder?”

The shrug Dr. Clayton gave in answer expressed a deep weariness. “How do wealthy, well-connected men ever come by their insider information? Maybe he bribed someone who worked for the Geological Survey, or maybe someone who knew about it wanted a favor from him. It seems the Heberts never suspected a thing, all except Adele’s grandmother, that is. From what my father said, she was quite a character, and warned my grandfather that if he was cheating them then he and his family would pay the price.”

“A threat?” Benoit suggested. 

“A curse,” Dr. Clayton said, with a dry laugh. “Mrs. Hebert dabbled in folk medicine, charms, that kind of thing. People who lived out on the bayou believed in her power to exact vengeance.”

“A belief your grandfather didn’t share, I take it.”

“He laughed. He thought it was hilarious. At least, at the beginning,” Dr. Clayton trailed off meaningfully. 

“Things did not work out as planned, clearly,” Benoit prompted.

Dr. Clayton snorted a laugh. “You could say that, yes. The very week my grandfather cheated the Heberts out of this land, a cluster of breeding pairs of _picoides borealis_ were discovered here. Only about 10,000 of them are left in the US. Environmental groups filed all kinds of lawsuits. The EPA got involved. Litigation dragged on, literally, for decades. All my grandfather’s machinations, and to this day, not a drop of oil has ever been drilled from this land, and never will be. It was the start of what turned out to be a long string of bad decisions and unmitigated disasters.”

“So, your grandfather changed his will,” Marta surmised, “hoping that if he returned the Heberts’ property then things might get better for his own family.”

Dr. Clayton nodded. “Only he made the mistake of telling my father what he’d done.”

“Your father, who didn’t believe in curses,” Benoit said, imagining how the man must have railed at the news that his father was determined to give away a fortune to a perfect stranger, out of what he considered ridiculous superstition. How it must have plagued him, turning over and over in his mind the problem of regaining what he regarded as his rightful inheritance, until he had his own moment of clarity. 

That connection gave him pause.

“He became a believer eventually.” There was a bitter twist to Dr. Clayton’s mouth.

“Did your father tell you what he did about the will?” Marta asked, as coolly professional as if she interviewed witnesses every day, no hint that such a tale had any personal import for her. 

“He told me an account,” Dr. Clayton said, choosing her words with care. “You have to understand, my father was not a man whose word could ever be taken on faith, not even on his death bed. What he said was, he’d discovered that Adele Hebert very much resembled her grandmother. He hired her with the intention of inflicting her on my grandfather, to agitate and alarm him, thinking that the stress and the fear would affect his health and hasten his passing. Then he could claim that Adele was responsible for the death, and because of that, the inheritance would pass to him as next of kin.”

“We spoke with someone who worked for your family back then,” Benoit said. “They saw Adele with what appeared to be a medicine bottle. She claimed your father had told her to administer whatever was in that bottle to your grandfather.”

Dr. Clayton’s mastery over her expression faltered, distaste very clearly flashing across her face. “I wish I could say I didn’t believe it, but as I told you, my father never told the truth, and he was certainly capable of anything.”

Marta still appeared troubled. “What I don’t understand is why there aren’t any court records or anything in the paper about it? We searched, and there’s nothing.”

“My father didn’t go into details, but I expect he managed it the same way the men in my family have always done things. Bribes. Threats. Influence. Favors. If he asked a judge to set aside Adele’s inheritance, he’d have made it worthwhile for that judge to do it. If he needed to keep any whiff of scandal out of the papers, a word about lawsuits dropped in the ear of the publisher would have done the trick.” 

If he requested that the coroner deem the cause of death undetermined long enough to get what he wanted and then change it to natural causes in time for that glowing obituary, then that would explain the two death certificates. 

“From our earlier conversation, I am assuming that, despite his schemes to enrich himself, your father’s efforts ultimately proved fruitless,” Benoit said. 

Dr. Clayton laughed, without any humor. “That is a tactful way of putting it, Mr. Blanc. My father was a screwup and a spendthrift who was constitutionally incapable of keeping any dollar he ever got his hands on. There was no get-rich-quick scheme he didn’t fall for. No bad investment he didn’t enthusiastically embrace. By the time he died, this land was one of the few assets he had left.”

Benoit nodded along; this account lined up with what they already knew. “So, he came to believe in Mrs. Hebert’s curse after all, if only as a way of explaining away his own failures, and tried to make amends by relinquishing the land he’d stolen. How did you feel about that prospect? I don’t take you for a believer in curses, and you said this property was one of the only things of value remaining to pass along to you.”

“It’s true that I don’t believe in spells or the evil eye or any of that nonsense,” she said, thoughtfully, “but I do know that what we do in this world comes back to us. If you lived as my father did, if you’ve schemed and stolen and profited through cruelty as generations of my family have done, that might very well feel like a curse. And to answer your other question, creating this preserve was my idea. We didn’t know how to find Adele Hebert or her descendants, if she even has any. This solution satisfied my father, and it gave me what I wanted, which is to protect this place.” She nodded her head toward a brass plaque across the way. “That’s what I wanted to show you.”

They went closer to read the inscription: _Dedicated to the Hebert family and to everyone who has lived on and loved this land_.

“However my grandfather died, the only true victims in all of this were the Heberts.” A long silence fell, as Dr. Clayton visibly wrestled with some decision. “I appreciate the promise you made me earlier, but my family’s sins have stayed hidden long enough. You’re free to do what you will with the story.”

* * *

There was much to contemplate in their conversation with Alice Clayton, which made for a quiet ride home. For his part, Benoit could not rid himself of the final image of Dr. Clayton as she walked back to her office, a lone figure silhouetted against the enormity of the horizon, the last of a once mighty family consumed by its own greed and ambition. The passage of time was, perhaps, the most chaotic force of all. 

Then, too, Benoit was troubled by the dots that had connected upon hearing Dr. Clayton’s tale. It was a revelation he did not look forward to sharing with Marta. 

“I was thinking we could head on into town and get some lunch while we’re out,” he suggested, with a sidelong glance in her direction.

She nodded distractedly, clearly lost in her own thoughts about the case.

The town tended to grow busier as the weekend approached, and the parking lot was nearly full. Sidewalks bustled with tourists, dipping in and out of shops and restaurants. Benoit led the way into a little place that served a fine jambalaya. They took their orders to a table in the back, where they might talk in relative privacy.

“So,” Marta said, after a taste of her jambalaya and a murmured “mm” of appreciation. “What don’t you want to tell me, Benoit?” It seemed his own poker face was not as effective as he liked to think, at least not with her. 

“You’re right that I haven’t been eager to share this particular conclusion, because it bears directly on you.” This drew Marta’s attention sharply to him. “It’s about those missing pages in Harlan’s journal. I suspect Ransom’s moment of clarity was remembering something he’d read in his grandfather’s papers.”

Understanding dawned on Marta’s face. “The summer he was Harlan’s research assistant. He would have spent a lot of time in Harlan’s study. He could have easily found the journal.”

Benoit nodded. This was his own supposition. “When he returned to the house to switch back the medication vials, I suspect he also took those pages.”

“He would have destroyed them,” Marta said, gaze dropping down to the table in an attempt to hide her disappointment.

“I fear you’re right. Young Mr. Drysdale would not have risked their discovery by hanging onto them, in case someone drew the parallel. We will have to finish solving this case without the assistance of Harlan’s missing pages.”

“It’s not a coincidence that I see so much of myself in Adele.”

No, Benoit thought, it was very much by design. 

They finished lunch and emerged back out onto the street. “Why don’t we take a walk around town?” Benoit suggested, in the hopes of distracting Marta from thoughts of Ransom’s coldblooded copycatting of Henry Clayton, Junior’s original crime.

She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm as they set off on their stroll. “What’s really driving me crazy is that I still feel like I’m missing something. And yet, as hard as I’m wracking my brain—I’ve got nothing.” 

They passed a store with bundles of herbs hanging in the window and a sign above the door, Bewitched Botannica. It caught Marta’s attention. “This isn’t exactly what I expected to see here.”

“Anywhere there are tourists in this state, some savvy entrepreneur will open a store selling herbs, tarot cards, candles, and the like. It’s somehow just expected.” 

On the ride home, Marta’s distraction grew more noticeable. They stashed their leftovers in the fridge, and Benoit was about to suggest spending time in the garden—a change of environment could sometimes jumpstart the problem-solving processes—when Marta drew in a sharp breath. 

“Herbs, tarot cards, candles,” she mumbled to herself, with the lightning-hit expression that looked very much like Benoit’s own process felt. “Scented Miracles.”

“That’s the business you mentioned, the one Harlan invested in?”

She nodded, with barely contained excitement. “Alice Clayton mentioned that Adele’s grandmother did folk medicine, herbs and stuff like that, right? So, what if--” Her mouth dropped open. “Wait. Where was that gas receipt from? The one you found in your father’s file?”

“Webster, Massachusetts.”

“That’s where Scented Miracles is. I’m almost positive. Oh, shit, I left the file back home. I’ve got to call Alan.” She scrambled to get the phone from her purse.

Benoit listened to her side of the conversation, although it wasn’t particularly illuminating. Once she hung up, she filled him in. “Okay, Scented Miracles _is_ in Webster and Harlan made the initial investment in 1960.”

“That was in and around the time his first book was published and became a bestseller,” Benoit said.

“Exactly. It was before Alan started working for Harlan, so he didn’t know anything more than what’s in the file. He did, though, remind me of the name of Harlan’s partner in the store. Prunella Moss, not Adele Hebert.”

“Prunella Moss sounds like a character from one of Harlan’s books,” Benoit remarked idly, then stilled, turning over that possibility. “Perhaps, with everything that happened, Miss Hebert believed it wasn’t safe to continue using her own name. What if Harlan assisted her in assuming a new identity to begin this new chapter of her life?”

Marta nodded along. “I can see Harlan inventing a back story for her, but a police detective would know about the legal stuff. Maybe the reason your father’s file was so thin wasn’t because he didn’t look for Adele but—”

“Because he found her.” A weight Benoit hadn’t even realized he was carrying lifted. “He and Harlan worked together to locate her and then to help her leave Ashburn. But why is that gas receipt from nearly twenty years after her disappearance?”

Marta shook her head, as much at a loss as Benoit. “I think we need to go back to Massachusetts and pay a visit to Scented Miracles.”

“And perhaps we can get some assistance from an old friend.” He took out his phone. “Good afternoon, this is Benoit Blanc calling. May I speak with Lieutenant Elliot, please?

* * *

The weather in Boston greeted them somewhat less direly than it had on Benoit’s first visit. The sun actually shone as they touched down, although, once outside, it quickly became clear that the feeble warmth of its rays could not dispel the sharp bite of the wind. Truly, Benoit did not understand how New Englanders tolerated such a climate. 

Lieutenant Elliot had obliged them by looking into the details of Prunella Moss and Scented Miracles and asked that they swing by the station to hear what he’d learned.

“I know it would make sense to drop off our bags at the house and take my car but—” Marta, who was normally the soul of patience, had been restless the entire trip, fidgeting with her book instead of reading it, leg bouncing up and down with nervous energy. 

Benoit certainly understood her inability to wait when they were so near the completion of the arc, blurry shadows of the past becoming a clear picture, a Polaroid developing before their very eyes. 

“Let’s rent a car and go straight there,” Benoit said, drawing Marta along to the Avis counter. 

At the station, Trooper Wagner met them in the reception area with hearty handshakes and an ecstatic smile. “How awesome is this? Solving a real-life mystery that a mystery novelist left behind in his journal. It’s so meta. Seriously, you couldn’t write a movie like this. People would say it wasn’t believable.” He talked a mile a minute as he led them back to Lieutenant Elliot’s office. 

Elliot rose to his feet. “Benny.” He clapped Benoit on the back. “Miss Cabrera, it’s nice to see you again under more pleasant circumstances.” Just the slightest knowing tilt at the corner of Elliot’s mouth said that he sensed the shift in Benoit’s relationship with Marta, but also that he knew how to mind his own business about it. “Please. Have a seat.”

Trooper Wagner remained lurking by the door, not to be budged with such a case coming to its long-delayed conclusion. 

“My friend, we appreciate your doing us this favor,” Benoit said. “Clearly, this matter lies far outside your jurisdiction.” 

Elliot leaned back in his chair, with an arch smile. “When the great Benoit Blanc calls me with a sixty-year-old mystery, involving his very own father and one of the world’s foremost mystery novelists, I am curious, to say the least.”

Trooper Wagner piped up, “It makes me think of the twist in _Nick of Time_. I’m not going to spoil it for you. But, seriously, it’s just like one of Harlan Thrombey’s books.”

Elliot managed not to roll his eyes at the trooper’s fan-boy enthusiasm, but it was a close thing. “As you requested, we looked into Ms. Moss, married name Campbell, and her business, Scented Miracles. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about it. No record of any trouble with the police. They pay their taxes, etcetera.”

Trooper Wagner jumped in, “Five stars on Yelp. Lots of positive buzz on social media. It’s the go-to place for Boston-area Wiccans and people interested in New Age philosophies.”

Elliot side-eyed him before continuing, “I’m afraid Mrs. Campbell passed away about ten years ago, and her husband, not long after that. Their daughter, Nelda Campbell, divorced, took back her maiden name, inherited the store.”

A disappointed “oh” spilled out of Marta, because how could it not after all their efforts? Benoit laid a hand on her arm, discreetly, or so he thought, but Trooper Wagner’s attention zeroed in on them, his eyes going wide with surprise, followed by an exuberant thumbs-up aimed in Benoit’s direction. 

Benoit refocused on the matter at hand and asked Elliot, “Did you find anything of interest at all?” 

“Oh, did we ever,” Trooper Wagner said, with barely repressed glee. 

“I was getting to that,” Elliot said, with a stop-interrupting look shot at the trooper. “Prunella Campbell née Moss doesn’t appear to have existed before 1960. Tax records. Driver’s license. Apartment rental and home ownership history. It all starts then, with no trace of her before that, not that we’ve been able to find.”

The intake of Marta’s breath was audibly sharp. “Does that mean,” she asked, in a tone that was almost afraid to hope, “could she really have been Adele?”

“I think there’s every reason to believe so.” Benoit reached for her hand, a look passing between them, everything else receding in this moment of revelation, in the intimacy of shared triumph. 

A cleared throat reminded them that they were not, in fact, alone. “I assume your next stop is Scented Miracles?” Elliot asked, with an amused glint in his eyes. 

Benoit looked to Marta. “What do you say, Watson? Should we go see what the daughter can tell us?”

Marta was already on her feet before he could finish. “Let’s go now.”

Elliot declared, “I’m coming along,” not exactly an anticipated development. “You brought me into this,” he added, with a shrug, “and now I want to know how the story ends.”

“Yeah, I’m—” Trooper Wagner began, but at Elliot’s quelling look, he deflated. “Staying here to work on that crime stats report.” His enthusiasm could not be quashed for long, however, and he added excitedly, “But I want to know everything that happens. Seriously, every word. Could somebody record it for me?”

Scented Miracles was located not far from the police station, on a block of small businesses, some prosperous looking, others shuttered, with ancient circulars peeling sadly in their windows. It reminded Benoit of the place where Fran was poisoned, an unhappy notion. 

From the exterior, at least, Scented Miracles appeared to be thriving: tidily kept, the building freshly painted, a signboard with a chalked “Blessed be!”, along with a wooden bench and pots of perennials, flanking the door. The bell jingled as they went in, drawing the notice of the young woman working the counter, dressed head to toe in black, the very picture of a clerk at an occult shop, although far too young to be Nelda’s daughter.

The woman eyed them curiously. Perhaps, they didn’t fit the profile of the store’s typical patrons. The customer glaring at them from the “Healing Crystals” aisle certainly didn’t seem to think so. 

“Good afternoon,” Benoit addressed the clerk, with a polite smile. “We’re hoping you can help us. We’d like to speak with Nelda Campbell. Would she happen to be available?”

The clerk’s eyes widened, although Benoit could not have said why. Perhaps, she recognized him from the _New Yorker_ article or took Elliot for the police officer he was. “I’ll go get Mom.” She disappeared into the back of the store. 

Marta whispered, “Adele’s granddaughter.”

The girl returned with her mother, a middle-aged woman, sturdily built and with very similar facial features to what Harlan had described in his journal. Ms. Campbell stuttered to a stop, squinted at them over the tops of her glasses, and broke into a delighted smile. “Well, if it isn’t Pierre’s boy! You look just like your daddy, don’t you?” She startled Benoit by folding him up in a hug, as if they were long-lost relations at a family reunion. “And who are your friends?”

Benoit recovered his presence of mind and performed the courtesies. “This is Marta Cabrera. She’s—”

“Oh, Marta!” Nelda greeted her with the same big hug. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Elliot introduced himself, and because he was self-aware enough to realize that everything about him practically screamed _I am a cop_ , he added, “I’m here as a friend, not in my official capacity.” 

Ms. Campbell laughed good-humoredly. “Well, we’re happy to hear that. Welcome, welcome.” She prompted her daughter to step forward. “This is my youngest, Delilah. Now, why don’t we go upstairs where we can be more comfortable and have a nice chat?”

One flight up was the family’s apartment. Nelda led them into a comfortable living room, with a profusion of houseplants, a collection of geodes proudly displayed, and framed oil paintings covering nearly every inch of wall space, each one a whimsical riot of colors. Benoit squinted at the signature: Claudine, whom he suspected was another of Ms. Campbell’s children. 

“I’ve been expecting you to get in touch about the business,” Nelda told Marta, with a flourish of her arm, inviting them to sit down, “but with all three of you here, I don’t imagine that’s what this is about.”

“No, you’re right. It’s more—personal.” Marta took a moment to frame what she wanted to say. “Since Harlan passed, I’ve been going through his papers. I found an entry in one of his old journals, from when he was a newspaper reporter, about a woman who came to tell him her story but disappeared before she could finish. There are pages missing, so we don’t know what happened to her, and we’ve been trying to figure it out. We think—could it be possible that your mother was that woman?”

Nelda made no answer for a good two seconds, merely blinking as she processed the question. Benoit braced for an explosion—hot denial, outrage at their audacity for even considering such a possibility, a sense of betrayal that a beloved mother could have kept such a secret—but when the eruption came, it was of a completely different kind. “Mamma is the mystery you’ve been working to solve?” She clapped her hands with delight. “Oh, how tickled she’d be! She read every book Harlan ever wrote, you know. I just wish she were here with us now.” Her expression dimmed momentarily.

No amount of time diminished the grief of losing a parent, Benoit knew that well. 

“Does this mean—” Marta began. 

“Oh, yes,” Nelda said, with a decisive nod. “Growing up, there were so many unanswered questions about Mamma’s past. Why didn’t we know any relatives on her side of the family? How did she end up in Boston? Because there was no mistaking the fact that she hadn’t been born here. Daddy, of course, knew all about it, but Mama didn’t tell me until I was grown and married myself. Said all of that felt like it happened to somebody else, and I guess she just didn’t like thinking about it.”

“To be perfectly clear, your mother was born Adele Hebert?” Benoit asked. 

Nelda nodded. “How much did you all find out about it? You know about the Claytons and the land and the will?” 

Marta nodded. “We know that Henry Clayton, Junior tried to make it seem like your mom was getting revenge on his family by poisoning his father.”

Nelda gave a nod in answer. “After Senior passed so suddenly, Mama was convinced that Junior did him in. Because she never gave him any of that—whatever was in the medicine bottle. Poured it into the houseplants instead. Said it turned them brown something terrible.”

“She was too smart for him,” Marta said, softly, with pride.

“Truly history repeats itself,” said Benoit, marveling at how neatly the two cases lined up. “Cold-blooded intentions upended by someone simply doing the right thing.”

“Only Adele wasn’t lucky like me,” Marta said, sadly. “The truth never came out. She never got vindicated, and the person who was really responsible never paid the price. She didn’t even get her inheritance.”

But Nelda shook her head. “Oh, Junior got his in the end. Mama said the true power in her grandmother’s curse was just the idea itself, the way it got planted in the mind, so a guilty conscience would turn every stray bit of bad luck, every accident, every bad thing that ever happened into a punishment.” 

Benoit wondered aloud, “I am curious how they pulled off negating a legally executed will without any trace left in the public record.”

“From what Pierre told Mama, there was a sham of a hearing. Just went through the motions, the whole thing already decided, and then they sealed the records. Probably burned them too. It was all hushed up. Pierre was pretty disgusted about it.”

“But how did your mom get up to Boston?” Marta wanted to know.

The rather obvious answer struck Benoit. “Harlan sent her, am I right?”

“That’s exactly right,” Nelda said, with a pleased smile.

Marta’s face lit with understanding. “In his journal, Harlan said Adele didn’t know anybody outside of Ashburn. So, he asked his mother for help, didn’t he?”

“Wanetta is a wonderful lady,” Nelda told them. “She’d had troubles of her own with Harlan’s father, and she never forgot what it was like to have to start over. Mama wasn’t the first woman she’d taken in who was trying to make a new life for herself.”

“Greatnana was a badass,” Elliot said, his admiration clear.

Benoit nodded, with a complacent smile. “Indeed, I always knew Wanetta Thrombey was a remarkable woman.”

“She’s a pistol, that’s for sure,” Nelda said, eyes crinkling with humor.

“You all stayed in touch?” Marta asked.

“Oh yes, we saw Wanetta and Harlan regularly, although in recent years it’s been more phone calls, what with both of them getting older. Pierre came to visit whenever he was up north.” She looked to Benoit. “I was very sorry to hear of his passing.” 

Benoit inclined his head in thanks, unable to offer words just at the moment, too full of emotion of his own. In this moment, he realized the true answer to that question Marta had asked about why he’d become an investigator. He’d followed in his father’s footsteps, to the extent that his own nature allowed, because he’d been proud of the man his father was and wanted to be like him, someone who made a difference in the lives of other people. To find out here and now that this was even truer than he’d known—he swallowed hard at the tight feeling in his throat.

“Can I ask—” Marta ventured, feeling her way along cautiously. “And, please, tell me if this is out of line, but how do you think your mother felt about what happened with the will? To be cheated a second time by the same people—” She broke off with a shake of the head.

Nelda waved her hand at the notion that this was somehow out of line. “Oh, honey, no, that’s only natural to wonder. I think Mama was mostly just resigned to it, because that’s how folks like the Claytons operate, and nobody’s going to stop them. But part of her was glad about how things happened, because she’d never have left her hometown otherwise, never have seen anything of the world, never met my dad or had me or her grandchildren. She lived the life she wanted, and that was what mattered.”

“Yes,” Marta said, softly, with a look at Benoit. “That is what matters.” 

They returned downstairs to say their goodbyes, hugs all around and promises to keep in touch, as if they had somehow found a new family. Delilah eyed them with a big question mark, and her mother said, “I’ll fill you in later.”

“Thank you so much for telling us about your mother,” Marta said. “And about the business, I want to do whatever works best for you and your family. We can figure it out together.”

Nelda hugged her. “Come for lunch. I’ll make you Mama’s gumbo.”

In the parking lot, Elliot said, smiling broadly as he opened his car door. “Now, this is what I expect from a visit by Benoit Blanc. Something intriguing. The happy ending is also a nice touch. I look forward to seeing you both again, whenever your next adventure brings you my way.” 

Benoit and Marta lingered by their own car after he’d gone. “Well, Watson, how does it feel to have solved your second case?” 

She answered in the best possible way, by putting her arms around him and kissing him. “Thank you so much for helping me. It feels amazing. Especially the way it turned out. We have to let Mrs. Sauder know that Adele did get somewhere safe and she did have a good life.”

Benoit nodded, a very interesting notion occurring to him. “I can’t promise you that it will be all scenic drives and lunch, but you do have the makings of a fine detective if that’s what you wanted to do.”

Marta tilted her head, thoughtfully. “We did say we’d talk about what’s next once we solved the case.”

“We did, indeed.” He smiled, fondly brushing the hair back from her face.

“But maybe not right this minute, though.” The spark in her eyes made intriguing promises.

“It will surely keep for later,” he agreed.


End file.
